Proud Souls

A novel

Ozuna Publications™ Bobby Ozuna

www.BobbyOzunaOnline.com
PROUD SOULS (eBook)

Copyright ©2007 by Robert R. Ozuna II/Bobby Ozuna | Ozuna Publications™

All Right Reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may
be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written permission
of the author and/or publishing company, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any relation to actual persons or places—apart from the city
of Seymour, Texas, Lake Kemp and the Ponce family cabin described within the
story, where the author visited with his family in the summer of 2003—is completely
coincidental.

We wish to thank the Ponce family from Abernathy, Texas for allowing us to use
their cabin….and for giving Justin a place to stay until he found hope…

For information please address: (Snail Mail)

Ozuna Publications | 7408 Bridges Avenue | Richland Hills, TX 76180

Bobby’s Homepage: http://www.BobbyOzunaOnline.com

Cover Art created by Maria Sanchez | www.SandiaFria.com

Cover Design created by Jeff Sneed | ww.FixYourMachine.net

Electronic (eBook) ISBN (13) | 0-982-2356-0-7

Trade Paperback ISBN (13) | 978-0-6151-4527-3
ISBN (10) | 0615145272
Library of Congress Control Number | 2007904781

1. Fiction : General 2. Fiction : Literary

First Electronic (eBook) Edition — ©July 2007

Copyeditor: Kenneth Polito

Bobby’s Blog: “Drawing Stories..With Words” | http://inotauthor.blogspot.com

“How the gods must have chuckled when they added Hope to the evil’s with
which they filled Pandora’s Box, for they knew very well that this was the
cruelest evil of them all, since it is Hope that lures mankind to endure its
misery to the end.”
~W.Somerset Maugham

"Love lives on hope, and dies when hope is dead; it is a flame which sinks for
lack of fuel."
~Charles Caleb Colton
(The Ponce family cabin off Lake Kemp in Seymour, TX)
—Prelude—

“Sweetie, it looks like it’s gonna rain really hard. Maybe we

should just take I-20 like we always do.”
Her husband, Justin, was leaning against the back driver-
side door, facing the road and passing traffic and intermittently
turning to address his son who was strapped into a car-seat.
Finishing a cigarette, Justin tried to calculate the distance and time
left remaining in their trip, already beginning to sense a nervous
tension within his wife. She was nervous and he was too, but his
duty was to protect his family and give the appearance that he was
never afraid. Above him, the sun was shining, typical of the season
in Texas and he was sweaty around the neck and under his arms.
Off in the distance, approaching in a path identical to his present
course and at a speed far difficult to calculate, a storm was
beginning to form.
“Justin?”
“I hear you baby. It’s okay. It’s only rain,” Justin said,
reassuringly. “Look sweetie,” he continued, turning to address his
wife with a smile, “we’ve been planning this trip for a while and I
want to take our time and go the back roads. You know it’s a better
drive and it’s much safer than fighting traffic on the highway.”
Right?
His wife gave him a look and in quiet submission she gave
in. She knew his interests were always in keeping the two of them
safe—her and her son—and she trusted Justin to make the right
decisions. She smiled. “Okay sweetie.”
“Alright then,” Justin said. He flipped his cigarette butt
towards the wind and gave a look back towards the approaching
storm before setting himself into the driver’s seat. He adjusted the
rear-view mirror and realizing his wife was staring at him, he leaned
over and planted a kiss on her cheek. Better? “We’ll be fine baby. I
promise.”
Justin drove off, reverting from the traditional path he and
his wife always used as they headed north towards the Texas
panhandle and behind them, the storm clouds collected and the
rain began to fall and the storm pushed westward. The skies
darkened around their car and the storm caught them before they
reached the small West Texas town of Seymour.
Justin fought to remain calm, relaxed and un-startled,
repeatedly resting his hand upon his wife’s left knee to calm her
and make her feel safe, but it did little to settle the storm. His son
was crying in the backseat, feeling the tension between Justin and
his wife and as the winds picked up the rains decreased the road’s
visibility. Justin turned and yelled at his son, telling him to calm
down because he began crying frantically in the midst of the
commotion between his mother and father. The last thing he saw
was the bright beams of the approaching headlights and the last
sounds of that night were his wife screaming, Justin! Oh my God and
the crunching sound of metal slamming against metal.
—1—

Six years had passed since their accident and with each day
spent without his wife and son Justin deteriorated, shrinking into a
dismal world, a prison he created within his mind. And now there
were only a handful of things left in the world that Justin Olerude
Bower truly cared for anymore, and not one of those particulars
included his own soul. He had become a bitter man who would just
as soon let God strike him dead where he stood. The sun was
setting behind him and he stared out towards the lake in front of
him.
“Well here we go again,” he said to himself in a whisper.
One more time, he thought.
A June beetle bounced around on the ground, as though it
were blind, completely discombobulated, and it fluttered and
crashed between a post on his back porch to the concrete flooring,
up and against his porch swing and then back to the ground, before
finally finding a safe haven in some left over salami slices that were
partially covered in dirt and cigarette ash.
The only evidence to prove he was alive came from the
steady squeaking of the rusted chain that held his porch swing
firmly in place and the intermittent breeze that slapped his face as
the weight of his body carried him back and forth in a slow and
steady rocking motion. He sat in the same position overlooking the
same settings as he had every evening for the past four years of his
life. And like the June beetle that fluttered aimlessly, slamming
itself carelessly from wood to concrete and then finally resting into
the fowl remains of leftover food in the dirt, he too was lost in a
drunken stupor somewhere between the memories of his past life
and the realities of a certain death.
The sun was beginning to wind down behind him and the
shadows danced before him on the ground—shadows of the
blackbirds that gathered behind him on the roof of his cabin like
buzzards who waited patiently for death. They gathered late in the
afternoon and early evening in small bands, feasting upon the
leftover bread or fish tails or fish heads or salami he tossed upon
the roof. He would sit with a cigarette and watch their shadows as
they wrestled and fought with one another for the remnants of
rotten food and leftover’s.
Tonight he sat still in his porch swing, as if frozen in time,
lost in a forgotten world, his eyes staring blankly at nothing. The
night had begun to settle around him, leaving him hollow with only
his thoughts and as the sun would set, and the minutes would turn
into hours, his eyes would work to follow the shadow formed by
his home as it slowly extended further and further away from his
back porch, until finally the shadow reached the water’s edge and
mingled in with the darkness of the lake and all the elements
around him became one. The night and his world once again were
dark.
The winds had begun to pick up, carrying the sounds of
the night like a dreary messenger, hidden off in the unknown
distance from an unknown world. With his eyes Justin followed the
outlining silhouette of the trees until they disappeared against the
backdrop of the night’s sky. He caught the shadowy glimpse of a
small brown owl, as it wisped through the air, finally settling on a
nearby branch. For a moment he made eye contact with the bird.
There’s a June bug over here if you want him, he thought. “Come
and get ‘em.” Come get me if you want.
He watched the night unfold from his back porch, rocking
steadily with the wind, and the circular breaks in the water began to
form on the lake just beyond his cabin. In the fading light of the
day the water flowed like blown silk; it happened when the fish
came up to snag helpless spiders or other bugs that trolled across
its surface. As the moon broke over the hill in front of him, just
beyond Lake Kemp, he watched as its light grew stronger with the
forthcoming night. The moon’s reflection danced from side to side
on the silky water; it doubled and tripled, and depending upon the
size of the fish or the ferocity in which it broke the water’s plane,
the moon’s reflection multiplied, spreading across the lake like
fireflies.
On most nights the moon appeared full. In the country, in
the middle of nowhere, away from the plagues of civilization and
the burdens of the world, the moon always seemed to glow
brightly, whether its season was new, partial or full. The stars too
appeared brighter above his cabin, away from the burning
fluorescents of the city lights. And within his dismal world, the
emotional world he enslaved himself and the physical one he called
home, Justin ignored those things around him that were greater
than himself and the beauty surrounding his cabin went unnoticed,
like his inner desire to love or ever be loved again.
At first the night was dark, nothing more than a blanket of
nothingness cast back behind the power of the moon, then upon
close scrutiny the stars were unveiled—first one and then another.
The more he focused on the sky, the more they seemed to appear,
as though they were imagined, or needed, or like him too longing
for attention. And as his eyes began to understand the complexity
of the universe and the grandness of life was revealed before him,
there were others, millions upon millions of stars burning endlessly
throughout the night’s sky. They, in conjunction with the moon,
cast only enough light for him to discern certain images in the dark,
those one might expect to see, but not enough light for his mind to
comprehend the other shadows that lurked throughout the night,
the ones that began as guilt within his mind and were personified
into something real.
 Justin studied the movements, shadows which at times
appeared to be nothing more than the dancing silhouettes of the
trees that protected them. He stared until they moved and then
disappeared entirely into the nothingness of the night. In his adult
mind he rationalized and told himself there was nothing there to
begin with. But people who have come to call the darkness their
home knew better. He knew better. Justin Olerude Bower may
have known it better than anyone else in Seymour.
So many days and so many nights Justin sat stooped in the
same position looking over the world in which he enslaved himself.
Without bars or concrete walls, he created an invisible prison for
himself, one in which to keep others out and away. He knew every
pattern of the grass and every twist of the trees and their branches.
He knew what time the sun would rise over his lake and what time
she would fall away into the forgotten world behind him. He knew
the moon, in all her mysteriousness, would shine powerfully on
some nights, so strong that she burned well into the next day and
almost shared the same space with the sun. He became familiar
with the sounds of the birds and bugs that surrounded his cabin
and he knew the deer by the shape and power of their racks as they
marched upon the hilltop across the lake like guardians of an
ancient time and place. He knew what type of fish was slapping at
the water, whether it was a crappie or a bass or a carp. He could
recognize the cries from the coyotes that wandered the hills and he
could recognize when a rogue had lost its way into his woods. And
he was also very aware that something else lurked in the darkness
and stillness and shadows of the night. To him, it was a living,
breathing presence that concealed itself within the shadows and
protected itself behind the dancing silhouettes of the trees, formed
by the fading light bulbs on his back porch as they swung from
exposed wires and chains. Those are the things a man can imagine
when he is alone, with nothing but the force and power of God’s
creations surrounding him, encapsulating him, smothering him to
the point of emotional suffocation. Those are the things Justin
Bower thought about. He was tormented by his own guilt.
 Justin got up from his seat on the porch swing and went
inside to prepare himself a drink for the evening. He opened a
cheap bottle of whiskey, his third of the week. It was one of
countless others that would soon find itself cast into the ground
with the remnants of those lonely drinks of courage that came
before it. Soon it would find itself buried, trapped beneath an
unforgiving world, to be forgotten like the family who was lost to
him, sleeping in a cemetery just outside of town. Dead. Hollow.
“I got you, you son of a bitch,” he said to the June beetle,
squishing it beneath his toes until the traces of salami and dead
beetle appeared as one flesh. Nasty, he thought. He skid the sole of
his foot along the cold concrete floor of his back porch, removing
the orange and brown traces of crushed beetle.
The overall physical makeup of his cabin was one large
room, with a small storage closet, a bathroom, a kitchen sink, and a
brick fireplace. Inside the cabin were two full-sized beds, each on
opposing walls, a small kitchen table, and an old tattered and worn
leather recliner. The leather was cracked like the spirit of the man
who shared the prison of those woods surrounding his cabin. He
had electricity, something he opted not to use, were it not for his
need to keep what food he did have from spoiling. There was a
form of running water too, which he rigged to run from a
generator pump that sucked the runoff from his porch gutter that
trickled its way into a large steel cylindrical tank outside when it
rained. The tank stood only feet from his back porch. He rigged an
old rubber hose to run from the tank, up and along the interior of
the roof on his back porch, twisting and winding until it made its
way inside to both his kitchen sink and the toilet in his bathroom.
Justin did not drink the water. He used some to wash his clothes in
an old basin outside and the rest to wash his dishes or flush his
commode. Justin made a trip to the local I.F.A. Foodstore twice a
month, on every other Saturday night where he picked up the
minimal essentials for his survival: various toiletries, drinking water,
and food (most of which was canned), and enough bottles of cheap
whiskey and Lucky Strike cigarettes to suffice for a two week
period. For Justin the number of bottles required to serve their task
varied depending upon the clarity of his imagination and the
memories of his lost wife and son, coupled with the ferocity of
which he wished to drink himself to death.
He unsheathed a steel ice pick from its leather holder
mounted on the wall near the refrigerator. He stabbed at a frozen
block of ice and collected enough cubes to cool his whiskey. He
returned to his back porch, barefoot, with his poison in his hand,
and again fitted himself into his porch swing. He rubbed the dirt
and cigarette ash from the bottom of his feet with each opposing
foot and sipped his dinner and again he listened and waited, trying
to discern the movements of the night. He sat as if in expectance
of someone, or something, which was yet to come.
When will it end? How long would he have to suffer a life
without his wife and son? How long would the memories of his
former life haunt him? How long before he found the courage to
join them? “It’s been too long,” he said to the night. Far too long.
He sipped at his whiskey and he held the glass jar to the
night’s sky and watched the ice cubes dance from side to side, and
then into circles, creating broken prisms of light and dark through
his poison.
“Take away the pain baby,” he said aloud. He toasted the
memory of his wife and began to feel overwhelmingly sad when he
toasted the memory of his son. “I don’t even know who you are
anymore.” He looked around, thinking he caught the glimpse of
the brown owl off in the trees. “I don’t even know who I am
anymore.”
A nervous anxiety began to tighten in his stomach, creating
an intangible pain. He lit a cigarette with a match, inhaling the
sulfuric smell before blowing out the flame. He watched the smoke
bend and twist away from his face as it created a hazy fog,
distorting the image of the lake before him. He inhaled again, and
held the cigarette away from his face and watched as it burnt down
smaller and closer to the filter, allowing him for a moment to feel
the heat between his fingertips. Is that what it’s going to feel like? When
I’m burning in hell? He continued to sip his poison.
Bats fluttered and screeched overhead, bobbing sound
waves from side to side, confusing him as he tried to track them
with only his eyes, keeping his head completely still. Their eerie and
silent screeches echoed from one side of the cabin to the other.
Crickets chirped his favorite bedtime tune; to him they played the
ballads of death while the bats reminded him that there are darker
forces beyond man’s comprehension and reach in the lonely
corridors of the mind. And as though they waited for the right time
to sing, the coyotes howled from the distant hill beyond the lake.
Sometimes he could make out the glowing stares of their eyes on
those nights they watched the fire burn from his make-ready flame
in the ground. They cried out to the night as though they could feel
the hurt and pain that weighed heavy within his heart. It was a pain
that can only be felt when a man has faced great loss in his life and
has given up belief in the eternal Father of Creation, and has since
buried in the ground hope, along with the countless empty bottles
of cheap whiskey and any possibility of ever knowing love again.
Justin sipped his poison until it was gone and returned
again to his cabin for ice and another drink. He repeated the
process again and again, until it was harder for him to see their
faces within the distorted image of the lake or remember their
names. He could feel the warmth in his throat as the whiskey
passed through him and made its way into the furrows of his belly.
His vision grew more and more distorted with each passing drink
and he felt his eyes grow heavy with sleep. He poured several more
drinks throughout the night until his feet began to drag and the
porch swing came to a stop. The last sound of the night came from
his mason jar hitting the ground as it slipped through his grasp and
his mind fell away into sleep while his heart yearned for death.
—2—

The sun broke the plane of the horizon to the east and a
steady breeze blew ash and dirt into his face and mouth. Flies
circled him like buzzards swooping over a decaying carcass and
they bounced in and out of his ears and the corners of his mouth.
As he began to wake up from his drunken sleep, he could feel his
head begin to throb with pain. Seldom did his head hurt the
morning after he drank himself to sleep, but seldom did he finish
an entire bottle in one evening. On most nights he drank one to
three glasses, the first more watered down by ice than the last. But
last night Justin had a brutal desire to drink more than usual. Last
night, he couldn’t brush away the memories of himself and his son
like the flies that now circled above his head, nor could he cast
them down and destroy them like the June beetle he squished
between his toes last night. Like a rehearsed professional, acting
upon a stage, Justin had learned to cast their memories aside, but
only temporarily. In four years of solitude he had much time to
think and many nights to worry himself sick with the guilt of their
loss. Last night, he could see their distorted faces through his
drunken eyes, like the image of the moon on the lake, cast back
behind his cigarette smoke, and it scared him. Last night something
stirred within his soul and it was beginning to manifest within his
mind.
Justin began to learn that killing oneself by way of alcohol
is a slow decaying process not an overnight success; it is one that
takes time and commitment and as he had learned thus far, more
than four years to accomplish. And he had learned that no amount
of alcohol could destroy the memory cells that stored those images
of his past that haunted his mind and plagued his heart with guilt.
No amount of hatred would wipe them away and no amount of
hurt could make him forget the wife and son he once called his
own. They were his only family—his reason for living.
The sun crept over the hill and its reflection spread across
the lake and sharp beams of light reflected off the water and tiny
rays of light pierced his eyelids. It was time to wake up. The
morning reminded Justin of a story his wife liked to tell him when
they were apart. She would say the first rays of light from the
morning sun were really her little way of reminding him that it was
time to wake up. She also said that as long as the sun would shine,
she would be there to wake him in the mornings.
Perched on a nearby Hackberry tree, its sharp claws set
deep within the bark, a large raven began to cackle repeatedly as if
on cue. Tilting its head from side to side between echoing
screeches, the large black bird seemed to pause and hold itself
steady, waiting for the drunken occupant to rise. Justin turned his
head and making eye contact with the raven appeared momentarily
frightened. Both man and fowl were locked in a stare and for the
moment, neither Justin nor the raven appeared to breathe. The
large bird called aloud one more time and disappeared over Justin’s
head and out of sight.
He felt stiffness in his neck and in his lower back as he
moved to roll himself over in the ashy dirt, shielding the light from
his eyes. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick, yearning for
water. He slept with his mouth open and his breath was rank and it
made him wince to taste the foulness that had settled in overnight.
He let his eyes wander about and they raced hurriedly and upon the
realization that he was not yet dead he cursed himself aloud for
failure. “Shit!” Not dead yet.
He lifted himself and his disappointment off the cold slab
of concrete that was his back porch. He scratched his ass and
shifted his boxer-shorts out the crack of his butt cheeks just before
he sniffed his fingers. He closed one nostril with his thumb and
blew snot out the other. Some of the end trails of mucus still clung
to his begrimed moustache and beard. He farted while he stretched
his back, extending his arms towards the sky and laughed himself
silly for a moment, looking around to see if anyone might have
heard him. A small bird fluttered to his porch swing; he farted
again. “Here’s to you little birdie.”
He staggered over to an oval shaped wash bin and filled it
with water from the store-bought reservoir he kept inside his
storage closet. His feet were cold on the concrete floor. He
splashed water on his face and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He
had a dirty bar of soap, an old toothbrush and paste on a
windowsill next to a weather stained mirror. He reached for the
brush and soaked it in the water before spreading paste over its
worn plastic bristles. As he brushed the grime from his teeth and
the taste of last night’s whiskey from his mouth, he stared at his
reflection in the mirror with disgust. He stared blankly for a
moment into his own eyes, like a man intent on staring down the
very face of death.
“Look at you,” he said to his dirty reflection in the weather
stained mirror. He ran his fingers through his scraggly beard and
scratched his face. “How could you ever be proud of me baby?” he
asked aloud. I wonder what you would say, if you could see me right now.
“Just don’t tell my son what I’ve become.”
He turned his attention away from the broken face in the
mirror and his eyes found a small toy on the windowsill. It was a
small super-hero wearing a cape. When he saw it, his heart skipped
a beat, as it had time and time before and it made him sad and his
eyes began to glaze over. “I was your super hero, wasn’t I son?” He
looked once more into the mirror with disgust in himself, his life
and what he had become. “But not anymore goddammit!”
 Justin was once a handsome man with prominence in his
eyes and a powerful aura of confidence rested on his shoulders. He
had dreams and ambitions and he was driven by the goals he set
forth to achieve in honor of the love for his family, and that very
drive helped mold him into the man he once was—a man in whom
his wife could be proud to call her own and a man who his son
considered his hero.
Now he was older, much more than could be measured by
his years; he was weathered, beat down by the burdens of his guilt
and a life of homelessness and solidarity. He had grown a beard
and his hair was long and greasy and unwashed and the confidence
of youth that rested on his shoulders was replaced with the
burdens of a past life now resting on his back. He bathed only on
occasion and there was no schedule to his practice of hygiene. He
didn’t care if he offended anyone, even on those nights he
ventured into town, because he rarely spoke to another soul. He
was as isolated among the masses as he was at the cabin. He spoke
mostly to himself and in doing so he often answered his own
questions aloud. This habit helped deter human contact, keeping
people away—people who were sure they could somehow save him
—if only he gave them the opportunity. The more the people of
the community tried to save him the more they made him feel as
though he were diseased.
He rubbed the left side of his face, just under the eye, and
tried to open his left eye as wide as the right. He could not. Justin
was scarred for life because of the accident six years ago and now
his shattered and broken cheekbone would forever give the
impression that the sun always burned heavily in one eye. Standing
there, looking at himself, he remembered why he didn’t use that
mirror as often as he should have, because there was a subtle rage
that began to boil within his mind and a hurt within his gut. Seeing
himself in that mirror caused him to reflect on his former self—the
husband, the father—a part of his life he wished to forget
altogether; it was a part of his life he spent the past six years trying
to bury deep within the depths of his mind, a part of his life he
tried to drown with alcohol. The memories of his past had become
a part of his life that he would soon have to come to terms with.
“Look at you,” he said to the man staring back at him
through the weather stained mirror. “Where did you go?”
Justin created a solitary routine of self pity and he
perfected it in time. It took many years but once he learned to cast
aside all feelings for himself, it became easier, but even isolated
within his cabin he could not escape the realities of his past, his life,
who he was and where he was being led. The time to make a
choice had come and he knew this. He had been summoned by
Death and Life, and both entities were now ready to wage an
emotional war and stake their rightful claim on Justin’s soul.
He became angry and a sudden urge came over him,
prompting him to destroy that mirror, but like all the times before,
he was reluctant and something held him back. Just kick the son of a
bitch! He stepped away and stared again into his reflection—the
ragged beard, the greasy hair, the broken and battered face.
“Goddamn you,” he said between grinding teeth. “Goddamn you.”
Why couldn’t you have stopped it? He looked to the sky as if somehow
his life might suddenly change for the better or magically return to
its former self. He spit and rinsed his mouth and he walked away.

Breakfast was the same as was each passing day in Justin’s

life. He ate four eggs, a slice of cooked ham and several cuts of
salami with crackers. He doused his eggs with hot sauce and he
drank his coffee black. He had a small table in the cabin which he
never used, apart from setting his coffee down so he could stand at
the screened door and eat with his plate in his hand and then stare
outside and watch and wait on a ghost that was yet to come. Again,
there was nothing.
 The ground was patchy, with some areas of the grass
growing strong and green and other patches were dead and
scorched by the sun. Where the grass was green, the patches were
perfectly round like the perfectly round piles of cow shit that were
scattered throughout the field by the cattle that roamed freely from
a nearby ranch. The mesquite trees, with their long and crooked
branches gave the field around his cabin a somber look of death.
He often imagined those trees coming to life at night, extending
their branches like arms, growing long and reaching over to him
while he slept, whether on his porch swing or his hammock or on
the cold concrete of his porch, choking him to death. He imagined
their grasp, rough and scorched and sharp, squeezing him until at
last, his lungs refused to return a breath and his brain died of
suffocation.
He laughed at the thought, nearly choking on his breakfast,
dropping food to the dirty floor. They’d probably love to kill me, he
thought. He stared at the piles of wood outside; he used some for
cooking and some he used to heat the cabin in the winter season.
Some of the larger trees were incredibly scarred at their base. They
were Hackberry and they were dirty to the sight and rough and
they were the ones he would chop with an axe when he first settled
in at the cabin. When the memories of his deceased wife and son
got the better of him, he would scream and hack at the base of the
trees until his body was shaking with emotion and physical pain.
It was four years ago that he settled in the cabin and
hacking on the trees with an axe was an easy therapeutic means to
cope with his rage and his loss and the anguish that came with
losing two people so dearly close to him. Living alone in that cabin,
he seemed to lose track of time, and in time, he lost track of
himself and all reality.
Years ago, in another place and time, while still in the
youth of his life with the woman he chose for all eternity, Justin
enjoyed reading. He would read to his wife in the late afternoons,
when the sun didn’t burn so bright and the winds blew steadily
throughout their home. He loved to read; it was his passion. Now
the only book he had at his disposal, Justin refused to touch. It was
a dusty old King James Version of the Holy Bible given to him by
the town’s pastor six years ago immediately following the accident.
He told the pastor to fuck off and even went as far as to tell him to
go to hell before eventually taking the bible with him. Looking
back, even then, Justin didn’t know why he took it after being so
rude about the gesture. To Justin it was all a matter of timing. It
had nothing at all to do with faith. His measurement of faith before
the crash six years ago was nothing more than an open
acknowledgement or belief in a God. The first two years out of the
hospital he roamed the streets and became a beggar, spending his
nights under the bridge near the site of the crash. He had more
than enough time alone to consider his faith and who or what
ideals he would choose to believe in. But it wasn’t until he settled
in the cabin alone that he truly contemplated those matters of faith
that were logical and those that presented themselves as simplistic
ideology.
He never read the bible; instead he would retire after
breakfast and sit in the old leather recliner inside his home and face
the corner of the cabin where the bible sat, now close to four years.
The words on the cover were unrecognizable because of the dirt
and dust and dead flies that collected on its top cover. It sat in that
corner farthest from the door as it had for years, next to an old
cigar box which too shared the same collection of dust and dead
flies.
Justin smoked his cigarettes and filled the interior of the
cabin with tiny gray rings—halos for the angels that wouldn’t dare
trod in his home. After his stare down contest with the Good Book,
Justin threw on a pair of old steel-toed boots and grabbed a couple
of fishing poles and some worms from his refrigerator and made
his way down to the lake for some late afternoon fishing.
 Some afternoons he caught lots of fish and on other days
he didn’t catch anything at all. He’d keep some of the fish to eat for
dinner and others he’d catch, inspecting them, watching them gasp
for air under the hot Texas heat before finally tossing them into the
lake as far as he could throw them. If he sat in the blistering sun
longer than one hour and came up short of anything more than
reeling in his bait, he would look to the sky and curse aloud, “You
don’t want me to catch any goddamn fish do you?”
Even on those days Justin caught a bucket full of fish he
found something negative to say and would yell, “Yeah, and if I
had two buckets to fill you’d only give me one goddamn bucket
worth of fish to fill, wouldn’t you?” Of course there was never an
answer, but Justin always paused as if he anticipated one.
On this particular day, Justin didn’t catch any fish. He
spent the rest of the afternoon kicked back in an old canvas chair
near the lake with his boots propped up on a rock next to his
fishing poles. The hooks dangled from side to side in the wind. He
wore an old flannel shirt and a dirty straw cowboy hat that was
wide-brimmed like the style of the Mexican sombreros. He
scratched and tugged at his beard and skipped rocks across the
water’s surface in spite of not catching anything. He laid a few
night crawlers out on the larger stones near the lake and teased the
blackbirds that soared overhead and watched the worms as they
struggled to find relief from the sun.
“You’ve got no worries do you little worm?” he asked,
their round thick bodies squirming from side to side, inspecting the
rocks as he set them out. He looked up towards the sky, and
watched the birds. “Oh yeah, you’ll be someone’s dinner soon.” He
stared at his fishing poles, remembering that nothing was biting.
Too hot outside. Well, not the fish at least. His mind drifted off the
worms for a moment and he envisioned his own death. He
pictured those same worms he tortured and the many that he
squished beneath his steel-toed boots before them, having their
way with his decaying carcass in some forgotten cemetery in West
Texas. He laughed and said, “Shit, I might even be your dinner one
day, if you’re lucky.” He scratched his greasy hair beneath his
sombrero. “Nah, I don’t think so.” He killed the worms, smashing
them with the heel of his boots and then he looked towards the sky
again, addressing the blackbirds. “Come and get it boys. Dinner is
served.”
He collected himself, patting away debris that might have
collected on his behind from the dirty canvas chair and he said,
looking towards the sky, “I guess I’m eating salami again tonight.”
There was a pause and then he continued. “No chance in hell a
man might catch his dinner and supply food for himself by the
sweat of his brow?”
He found a large rock and threw it into the water, causing a
large splash in the middle of the lake. He kicked his rod and reels
over and made his way back towards his cabin.
He walked with a slight haunch in his back, something that
occurred slowly after years spent sleeping under the bridge or on
his hammock, or porch swing, or the cold concrete slab of his back
porch. Since his accident six years ago there had been increased
swelling in his right knee and it ached him sorely after his legs had
been locked in any one position for too long. Everywhere he went
he carried a slight limp in his right leg, and he could often be seen
dragging his right foot like a man who carried an invisible ball and
chain, hauling the burden of life behind him like a prisoner.
He stumbled over to the cabin and made his way inside.
There were some field mice eating on stale breadcrumbs and sliced
salami and scrambled eggs that fell to the floor earlier that
morning.
“I guess it’s getting close to dinner time, huh boys?”
He shooed them away with his sombrero and searched the
fridge for something to eat. “It’s almost time to make another trip
into town fellas,” he said addressing his neighbors on the floor, as
they hurried back towards the crumbs. Of course they didn’t
respond and as soon as he took his attention away from them, they
commenced to eating the scraps on the floor.
He rubbed his left cheekbone and considered the trip into
town. Justin hated being around people. His trips into town were
always planned ahead of time, to avoid most of the general public.
He made arrangements with a local grocer—Ralph Winslow
Parison—who agreed to have the same foods (including a
substantial amount of cheap whiskey and Lucky Strike cigarettes)
ready for him to pickup every other Saturday night after the store
had closed for the evening and everyone had gone home. He
always met the store manager out back, stayed in the truck and
smoked a cigarette while the gentleman loaded two crates of food
in the truck bed. There was never much conversation between the
two of them, no more than the casual hello or good-bye; eye
contact was minimal and they had come to perfect the art of
dancing around the topic of why they met the way they did, in a
manner of masking their own personal guilt.
After the manager would load the truck bed, he would
smoke a cigarette as though Justin did not exist and when finished,
he would give Justin a nod of the head and a waving gesture of
good-bye, and like Justin, would drag his feet and walk away with
his head down and disappear again into the solitude and darkness
of the grocery store.
Justin considered the entire process over a few cigarettes
on the porch swing before making his decision. He found the small
super-hero that once belonged to his son and held it in his hand.
He made gestures with the toy and like a child, walked the figure to
the end of the armrest on his swing and yelled, “No, no save me!”
before letting it fall to the ground. In that moment Justin decided
to don the cleanest flannel shirt he could find within a pile of
otherwise dirty clothes and he dusted off a pair of denim jeans,
changing before heading into town. He kicked the mud off the
bottom of his boots and fired up the V-8 in his 1952 Chevrolet
pickup truck. He stared at the cabin for a moment before leaving,
resting his elbows on the large steering wheel and he blew smoke.
He wrestled with the steering wheel and the idea of being around
people tonight. He was always nervous before heading into town.
But Justin had years of practice and the precision with which he
and the grocery store manager operated had become an art of
minimal pain and trouble. He would pick up his crates of food, nod
hello, wave good-bye and then make way for a more upbeat
destination. It was people he had come to hate, not so much who
they were personally, but what they represented. To him they
represented something he had lost— hope. But there was one
person whose company he didn’t mind. There was one person he
enjoyed being near and whose presence gave him a slight sense of
peace, despite never telling her and never mentioning it to her or
ever allowing his intentions to be seen.
His final stop tonight—a small hole-in-the-wall bar—was
also a place he visited on a seemingly scheduled basis. He stopped
by every other Saturday night just after picking up his food from
the back of the I.F.A. Foodstore. He’d go in, sit in the corner,
watch her move and dance around horny men and jealous ladies
and drink himself drunk and when she wasn’t looking, he would
slip out, without ever once saying good-bye.
It was the ideal place for a man to hide from the burdens
of the world and for a moment, become a master of his own fate
and keeper of his destiny. There was a familiar smell in the air and
a tingle in his bowels and he didn’t care for salami or for old stale
crackers or the company of bats, crickets and death. Tonight Justin
was going to drink his dinner as he had so many nights before, but
only this time he would do it in the presence of the only person not
afraid to speak her peace to him. Tonight he would take the windy
road that leaves town and park the truck far away from the general
public, smoking two or three cigarettes before gathering the
courage to make the long walk across the gravel parking lot of the
place both loved and despised in Seymour, known as The Hawk’s
Nest.
—3—

Across town, on this same Saturday night, Tessa Jameson

was beginning her routine in preparation for another night’s work.
She awoke from a nap, stripped herself of her clothes and propped
the balcony door open to her second floor apartment. She put out
the butt end of a small joint in a small brass ashtray and tip-toed
her way to the bathroom completely naked.
The most elaborate room in her apartment home was the
bathroom. To her, it was a refuge, a soft place of sanctity where
she could feel beautiful and for a brief moment, pretty. The tub
was filled with water and suds. She eased herself into the water and
then reached for the spout using only her toes, remaining still until
all that appeared around her were collections of suds and two feet
peeping out slightly from beneath the water and two round bubbly
mounds of soap that formed her breasts. The lights were off and
one complete side of her bathtub was covered in candles, and there
were others on the bathroom sink and some on the windowsill,
dancing from side to side with the breeze that flowed freely
through her home and they danced to the silent music that played
within her mind.
The room smelled of fragranced soaps, body lotions and
bath oils and she closed her eyes, leaning her head back gently
along the outer portion of the tub to relax. She slid her fingers
upwards along the outside of her legs and she followed the silken
curvature of her thighs with her hands and then crossed them at
the navel, embracing the opposing side of her waist until she was
embracing herself and all the while her smile grew larger with every
touch. She held herself tightly for a moment, taking in her
surroundings, the cool breeze that flowed through her home from
the open balcony door, the dim lighting in the bathroom and the
soapy water and then her smile slowly faded into a sad frown. She
winced and fought back the pitiful sadness of being alone. For the
moment she was in love with an imaginary man who loved her in
return, a man who accepted her for who she was today. She made
it a point to never allow self pity to interfere with her personal bath
time, so she cast aside her feelings for the moment and enjoyed the
solitude and relaxation that came with soaking in the tub before a
long night’s work with drunken men and jealous ladies.
There was a touch, a rub, a caress of each breast until her
nipples were erect beneath the soapy water. She loved them; she
liked to say they were pretty. She played with her hair, running a
comb through the wet strands of dirty-blonde and she tickled her
nose with the ends. She stared at her body beneath the water, it
moved from side to side in the reflection of the bath and she stared
at her toes, something she was quite proud of. She loved her feet
and took extra special care of them and their appeal.
I could so use a massage right now, she thought. She pictured
someone, a man, leaning his body over her, rubbing and stroking
her with deep sensual strokes, working the stress away, all in a
moment until she was ready to work away his sexual desires and
frustrations for her.
Using only her toes again, she pulled the rubber stopper
from the drainage hole and gracefully slid out from beneath the
bubbles in the tub and then gently she placed her feet into her
slippers, being careful not to knock over any candles. Standing
before the mirror, dripping wet from the oils in the bath, with
sparkling droplets of water winding their way around voluptuous
curves, her tinted silhouette danced from side to side in the candle-
light and for a moment she remained utterly beautiful. She touched
one breast and smiled, cupping herself with one palm and then
easing into a gentle rub with a fingertip around one nipple. She
imagined the touch to be that of someone other than herself. In
her mind she could almost feel the touch of his hands upon her
body and the tingly sensation of his breath as it trickled down her
neck and she could make out the faint sounds of his whispers in
her ear, as he pulled her closer, warming her body next to his, all
the while keeping her safe and secure. For it was security she lacked
more than confidence and protection she needed more than love.
“You are beautiful Tessa,” she said, trying hard to convince
the image in the mirror. “No matter what other people say about
you.”
She wrapped her body in a sheer night gown and it dangled
helplessly over her shoulders, steadily held in place by each erect
nipple. She tip-toed barefoot across the dingy apartment room
floor and eased herself out onto the balcony and lit a cigarette,
peeking around each corner, and occasionally down below, to make
sure no one could see her glistening silhouette beneath her evening
attire. Leaning over the balcony to inspect the area below, a slight
breeze caught and lifted her night gown from behind, exposing her
round bottom; Tessa caught it almost immediately, as if the process
were rehearsed, and wrapping the night gown around herself again,
she giggled silently and immediately became aroused by the idea
that someone may have seen her, and even more, were in return
aroused by her.
Tessa lived in a duplex-styled building, housing four two-
story homes all formed into the shape of the letter U, and each
tenant sharing a large backyard, a private parking area and a very
discreet pool. Tessa loved to spend her free time sunbathing in the
nude. It was rumored once that she was caught by the postman as
he came around back to deliver some mail, but she didn’t panic,
she only lowered her shades to let him know she was aware of his
presence and she flipped herself over on her belly to tan her
precious backside.
 The sun was setting off in the distance and the sky was
fading from bright red to yellow and then to baby-blue and then
black. She puffed on her cigarette and closed her eyes, letting the
breeze take her away to better times.
This was the final act of Tessa Jameson before dressing on
Saturday nights. She slowly inhaled the smoke and leaned back into
a wicker chair and let one leg dangle over an armrest, giving way to
the cooling breeze as it glided its way up and between her legs. She
stretched out her other leg and admired its beauty and waved her
toes in the air. How pretty, she thought. Soon she would have to
retreat from her fairy-tale world and don a faded summer dress and
weathered running shoes in preparation for another night’s work in
the one place outside her home she felt important and special—a
place where a woman with a past could be held in high regard—
and pretty.
There would be one or two more cigarettes and an
occasional touch between her legs with a momentary masturbatory
climax. She loved the thrill of being free and alone on her balcony
with little, if anything on, but seldom brought herself to a full
climax. She saved those precious moments for the bedroom where
she started and stopped, touched and then rubbed, over the course
of several hours, all in the form of solitary foreplay, before slipping
herself under the covers and releasing every bit of unrequited love
between her legs, down the crack of her voluptuous round bottom
and onto her soft cotton sheets.
Her phone rang and she leapt off the balcony and into her
home to retrieve the call, but it was no one important. Not him, she
thought. The man sounded like a nice guy but she wasn’t interested
in getting aluminum siding wrapped around her apartment home.
She teased and flirted with the salesman on the telephone before
letting him go. And so as not to feel so completely alone, she
pretended to continue with the call.
 “Oh, how are you?” she said aloud, twisting one finger
around the tangled telephone cord. “Yes, I’m just lovely, just
lovely.” She flirted with an imaginary lover on the phone, like the
lonely damsels in her romance novels that waited patiently for their
lover to rescue them from their otherwise pathetic lives. She
laughed at herself for her own silly antics and placed the phone
back on the receiver. Good-bye. She looked around. Still lonely. Still
alone. She lit another cigarette and stood at the balcony door,
admiring the breeze as it revealed her naked body. Eat your hearts
out.
Tessa Jameson suffered from an invisible and lingering
sickness known only as reputation. She was born and bred in
Seymour, raised by a drunken father who was openly kind to her
when he staggered home drunk but verbally abusive when he was
sober. Her mother left that man for another when Tessa was in her
pre-teenage years, this one being complete opposite of her
biological father; instead, he was abusive when he became drunk
and nice on every day in between.
She was a cheerleader, a small-town beauty queen who
could be found licking ice-creamed cones at the Dairy Queen or
tipping pins at the bowling alley on Friday nights where she caught
more attention from the older men than the boys her own age. She
had never seen the world outside the dusty roads of Seymour,
Texas. If asked, the town women-folk might say she had been
further than any woman within the county. These stories were
relayed by the same ladies who opted to gossip within the confines
of their homes, during afternoon tea just after breakfast, where
they justified their rumors so long as they were not doing it before
the whole world. Tessa knew that evil had a funny way of justifying
its actions, especially when hidden behind a shawl, Sunday bulletin
or a cross. Tessa had a reputation that lingered over her like the
scent of a smoker in a church pew on Sunday morning. She was
only thirty-years old, roughly the same age as Justin, and in time,
she learned to accept her place and her destiny as nothing more
than the beautifully enchanting barkeep, of a small town paradise
hidden between two towns, off a dusty highway in west Texas.
She made mistakes when she was younger but no more or
less than any other woman. She went on too many dates with too
many young boys, some who earned their manhood and others
who had to succumb to putting their manhood in check, while they
learned the finer art of boasting to help conceal their own personal
shortcomings in bed. If asked today, she would say she was only
having fun in her younger days and she was quick to correct those
more inquisitive and bold patrons at the bar and tell them she “had
no regrets.” But, on many lonely nights, while she watched
drunken couples stumble out of the bar, holding tightly to one
another’s waist and stepping in unison, one leg over the other to
help keep each other balanced, it was hard to resist the urge to
breakdown and cry. To Tessa, those people seemed to accomplish
something she could not. They found a partner who accepted the
scars of their past lives.
Tessa breathed in and let out a heavy sigh, knowing that no
one would be waiting for her when she returned home in the early
hours of the morning. There would be no knight in shining armor
beating down her door to rescue her from the cruel world. No one
would call to see if she made it home safely and no one would
know if she were hurt or sad or lonely. No one cared to save a
whore. She tossed away her last cigarette and crept back inside; it
was time to dress and leave the lonely damsel behind in lieu of the
head barkeep at The Hawk’s Nest.
—4—

When dealing with the amenities of small town life, The

Hawk’s Nest was a fine establishment. It had all the necessities of a
child-like refuge, bright shiny lights draped the outer perimeter of a
large wooden bar and the corners were dark, mysterious, and
sensual. There was a pinball machine, a few video games, two
electronic dart boards, and a shuffle-board table, dusted more by
pool chalk and cigarette ash than with the salt-like granules
purposed for the game’s play. There was a jukebox in one corner,
near the only restroom accommodations, and the bar hummed
with numerous sad songs of encouragement. It had the usual
upbeat and uplifting tunes, but mostly it was filled with
sympathetic reminders for the poets at the bar that life can stink to
its bitter end. Today the tune was commonplace for a bar such as it
was; the singer was hurt, distraught because of the loss he incurred
by the wife who up and left him for another man. But it was
because of the music, the old wooden bar, the dim lighting and the
emotion that followed each patron, as they took their places inside
the bar like members of a church congregation that the bar
survived as it had. A place like The Hawk’s Nest thrived on pain
and survived on the necessities that came with being alone.
The Hawk’s Nest was family owned. A foursome of
brothers by the name of Holder purchased and rebuilt the
establishment right outside the small west Texas town of Seymour.
Each brother at one time or another passed through the town and
each made a stop at the same tire garage to stretch their legs, use
the restroom facilities or purchase a bottled soda. One night over
drinks each brother told a story of how they had stopped at the tire
shop over the course of many years, driving south from the Texas
panhandle and their hometown in Wellington to their new family
residence in Fort Worth. The sheer comedic sense of how each
selected and enjoyed the same stop led to a family business
decision to purchase the lot after news that it had closed for good.
The service station turned bar was formerly owned and
operated by a husband and wife whose children had grown up and
moved away, leaving behind what they referred to as the pathetic
small town life. Archie Hawkins, a former football player the
people dubbed The Hawk, ran the garage and changed the tires as
customers pulled in and his wife served the bottled sodas or
lemonade she made and she loved to talk and cry about the
children who up and left them. There were three of them, all girls
lusting for more excitement than the small town life and small
town boys had to offer. For Archie and his wife Colleen, their
customers slowly became their life. Changing tires and serving
sodas had become a purpose for them. After years of running the
garage, the big city corporations started moving out west and
slowly bought out some of the smaller businesses to make room
for a more productive industry. More elaborate and profitable
service stations opened up, allowing for quick oil changes, gasoline
fill-ups, various assortments of coffee, and they had more drinks to
offer than pops that required a bottle opener. When Archie’s wife
died he followed not far behind her and their business, like their
children before them, was gone to Seymour forever.
As the story goes, one evening the Holder family made the
decision to purchase the land and all mineral rights, gutting out any
remnants of the tire shop to make host for a cozy watering hole for
the locals. Each brother offered up their share of the money and
although they were never to gain riches, they were excited about
the idea of owning some small cantina in West Texas. For them, it
was enough to fill a lost sense of accomplishment and pride, not to
mention it became a great story to tell over frozen margaritas.
Once a month the older of the brothers, Wayne, would
abandon his executive life in Fort Worth, head westbound on
Highway 199, and count their menial earnings, sip some free cold
beer, spend a relaxing afternoon fishing off the nearby lake and
then head back home to reality amidst traffic, corporate politics
and the fast-paced hustle of big city living. He was never
introduced as one of the owners, instead he was left alone to drink
his beer and listen to the sad music and pathetic stories of how life
is so unfair. He loved it.

Justin became a regular to The Hawk’s Nest, but in a more

limited sense and schedule. He stopped by once every other
Saturday night, right after picking up his food from the back of the
I.F.A. Foodstore. When he came in, he found the furthest seat
away from the general population of barstool bandits, in the
darkest corner of the bar, near the only restroom accommodations.
Because he had become so accustomed to living within a world of
simplistic routine, he oftentimes found it hard to resist the urge to
curse someone out for sitting in his chair or standing too close to
his spot. There was only one person allowed to serve him his drinks
and tend to his cruel spirit. She was the one he enjoyed watching as
she danced around the bar like an actress in a stage play but she
would not have known, not by the manner in which he treated her.
Justin lit a cigarette and watched the couples as they began
gathering for another night of fun and tears. The harder he tried to
ignore his feelings for Tessa, the more he thought of her. He
considered turning around and going home but the desires in his
heart to feel human again were too much for him to ignore. He
tossed away his cigarette and cursed himself, “Dammit Justin!”
On the outside the bar was old and tattered, looking more
like an old framed-house than a bar. On the inside the smooth
cracked concrete flooring still remained along with the occasional
stains of motor oil left behind from its former life as a tire shop
and garage. Large cracks extended the entire perimeter of the floor
like streaks of lightning. The two large bay doors still remained in
the front, sealed shut, locking in the stench of motor oil, cigarette
smoke and spilt beer. Now, one large wooden door with a peep-
hole was added between each existing bay door. On one side of the
bar sat a stack of old tires, left behind by its former owner and the
exterior entrance to the only restroom accommodation was closed
up, and replaced by an internal entranceway. The original restroom
key owned by Mr. Archie Hawkins still hung inside, connected by a
chain dangling from a rusted horse shoe with the name Pecker
engraved on one side. It was Wayne’s idea to keep it, believing
every bar had to have a story and a past, and he decided to leave
small hints of its former life spread secretly throughout both the
interior and exterior of the bar.
Gravel was laid on three sides allowing for plenty of
parking spaces for its guests. The only worthwhile investment in
the bar was a large rectangular steel sign, which sat proudly atop
the roof, depicting a flamboyant hawk with long sideburns, a cigar
in his mouth, a guitar over one shoulder, and one eye focused on
two female birds who stood side by side with their backs facing
one another; one was obviously upset with her wings interlocked
across her breasts and her beak pointed up towards the sky, and
the other stood grinning, with a conniving smile. If asked, people
stopping by The Hawk’s Nest for a drink and a story or some
temporary enchanted moment with the lovely blonde bartender in
between stops to bigger and better cities might be told that each
ladybird represented the duality of sexual desire in a man and his
emotional battle between choosing the wife with whom he fell in
love and the girlfriend who reminds him how great he is. Ironically,
never a brother visited the newly transformed bar except Wayne.
The others’ wives felt the place was unsuitable for a married man
despite the minuscule monthly profit checks. Wayne became the
unofficial spokesperson for The Hawk’s Nest; he thought the place
to be a small paradise.

Justin finished another cigarette before making his way

towards the front door. Off in the distance a train whistle was
blowing and following that were the sounds of an approaching
storm; thunder rumbled and lightning lit the clouds off in the
distance. He held the door handle in his hand for a moment and he
could hear the sounds of laughter and music on the other side. It
was as if he was locked in a realm between two lives—his darkened
world slowly encompassed within the clouds of the approaching
storm and the frail glimpse of a new life within the stench of the
bar and the blond strands of hair of a broken and abandoned
woman. This was that moment he mustered enough strength to
face every other Saturday night for four years. Behind that door
was a reason worth continuing no matter how demented and
obtuse the idea might have appeared.
The mood always changed when Justin came strolling
through the bar. Like a lost soul at a baptism, the people parted like
water and watched as he found his table and his chair. Most people
were obliged to stay away from the hobbling, broken-spirit who
trotted through the bar like a pirate, slant-eyed and bitter, carrying
the burdens of a past life on his shoulders like a parrot and the
abhorrence of those patrons who clung desperately to hope with
each sip of their alcoholic beverages. Everyone in the bar knew
Justin’s story and each of them, in their own way, understood and
related to his pain. They may not have suffered a loss as similar to
his, but grief has no prejudice and pain is absolute and common to
all.
Inside, old rusted license plates hung along the walls and
ceilings; there were picture frames depicting people and events no
one in the bar had ever known or attended. Three large wooden
pillars connected the bar to the ceiling and stapled upon each of
them were countless instant photographs depicting Christmas,
New Year’s and other holiday festivities celebrated by the bar’s
usual customers over a course of many years. Every bar has a story
all its own and each character in the bar contributes a chapter to its
ever-lingering history. To the passer-by or the occasional stop-in, a
bar like this is really nothing more than a hole in the wall, a trashy
place full of trashy people, to drink and pass the time, but to the
regulars, it’s a sanctuary of peace as sacred as the bible-thumping
Christian’s church. Every member had a name and every person
had a story unique to themselves that allowed them a place within
the bar and for a moment in time they were significant.
Couples walked in proudly, hand in hand, and secret lovers
met at their favorite tables never too close to the door and never
too obvious in their attempts to be discreet. They touched one
another’s hands between sips of their drinks or puffs of their
cigarettes or trips to the restroom, careful not to be discovered
within their sinful rendezvous. The older gentlemen gathered
together at the bar sharing their habitual tales of how great they
once were or how incredible they could have been, speaking only
about times that have long slipped away into their past, but never
about the reality they have suffered to accept. The older ladies
gathered at the ends of the bar, admiring the stories as they
overheard them and repeatedly checking their make-up within the
fading lights above their heads that allowed them to appear young
again, if not but for one night. The younger members collected
themselves at tables closest to the bar, drinking and laughing, and
they were full of life and everyone within the bar—at the same time
—had something important to say. And it was here that they could
consciously pretend to be listening, without being judged for not
ever hearing what their significant others had to say. Here at The
Hawk’s Nest, everyone was a good listener and they were all
patient enough to wait their turns to be heard. And it seemed that
everyone who spoke knew exactly what the other person was trying
to say.
In one corner of the bar a group of women were
reminding one another how much of an asshole their boss was and
in another conversation a man was telling his girlfriend that his
wife was a nagging bitch and opposite them a woman was telling a
group of men how overly jealous her husband was while she leaned
forward enough to reveal more and more cleavage. Some of the
people were poor because life wasn’t fair and others were sick
because the doctors had no clue as to how to heal them. Others
complained about the price of gasoline; some said water was too
expensive so some of their yards were scorched brown. There were
no good jobs but none of them wanted to go to college much less
finish high school. Some of the ladies were eyeing a man in the
corner and debating whether he was too old to take to bed and
others were arguing that others were too young to truly please a
woman. Men were debating how seasoned some of the ladies were
at the bar and others were enticed by the naivety of the younger
girls. Despite their stories and their sad tales and their pathetic
attempts at hearing themselves speak, they were all here; they were
all the same but incredibly different and though they may never
have spoken of it, they were in love with the idea of this place, this
sanctuary, this bar. The Hawk’s Nest had become their home. It
had become part of the essence of their existence. It consumed
their time and it was the foundation of their most intimate and
private relationships. There were friends and couples and lovers
and family. Someone’s daughter was getting married and someone’s
son had hit a homerun in last night’s game. Someone’s mother had
passed away and someone’s father had difficulty wiping his own ass
as he grew older. All the tales and stories and life existed because
there was a place they could develop, a place where they were
nurtured and passed down and passed on; The Hawk’s Nest was
the place where each member had a story all their own. All of the
people seemed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle—all of them
but one.
Justin had the appearance of a man who once walked with
power and confidence, but now wore his grief invisibly around his
neck. The people in the bar could sense the hurt within his sad
brown eyes. It is hard to conceal such tragedy in small towns where
everyone’s business is eventually everyone’s business. Small-town
busybodies can stir up more gossip and drama than any high priced
reporter in the big cities, and rumor and gossip make for a better
picture in the mind than the media can conjure on television. The
general consensus was to leave him alone, cut him loose and
pretend he didn’t exist. Ignore him. It was easier for the people of
Seymour to pretend Justin did not exist so they never had to face
the type of person they truly were. People are always willing to turn
their cheeks to atrocities, so long as they have strength to confide
and restrain their own personal guilt for doing so.
“Look who’s here tonight,” a middle-aged woman said,
scooping coins left behind at the bar into the palm of her hand.
She looked at an imaginary watch on her wrist and said, “He’s early
tonight. Probably gonna rain.”
Tessa was busy wiping down a counter-top when she
noticed Justin easing his way into the back corner of the bar. “Oh
hush up and mind your business Peggy.” Despite his treatment of
her, Tessa looked forward to the every-other-Saturday-night trips
Justin made to the bar. She studied herself quickly in the large
mirror that covered the entire back section of one wall and pulled a
set of dirty brown curls over one eye. She caught Peggy staring at
her. “What?” Nosey.
Peggy gave her a look of disapproval and shook the change
in her hand. “Of all the men in this one horse town, you pick the
ugliest one.”
“He’s not ugly,” Tessa said, correcting her friend almost
immediately.
“Well, ugliest attitude how’s that?”
You don’t always have to be so damn right. “Well he’s not ugly to
me.” She lied. Justin treated her worse than anyone else despite
being one of the only people in town he actually opened up to
enough to say anything.
The topic of Justin immediately changed when she and
Peggy were interrupted by one of the regular young men who
attended the bar with a small group of friends. His name was Trey
Phillips and he was the son of a more well-to-do family and a
former football and track star in high school. His dreams of
becoming something more than another small-town story came to
an end when he found himself in trouble with the local authorities.
The matters were small and his father helped lessen his punishment
but he wasn’t mature enough to accept the trials that came with
such adversity and he gave up on his dream of playing collegiate or
professional football, accepting the glory that came with being a
former high school somebody. Now he visited The Hawk’s Nest
on Friday or Saturday nights with a group of friends, both male
and female, and he had his eyes set on the lovely curvature of one
Tessa Jameson.
“Hey good looking,” Trey said, tapping both hands on the
bar and smiling.
Peggy thought he was a darling and she admired his raw
strength that came with being youthful. “Hey handsome. What are
you having tonight”?
Trey smiled and with eyes that started low on her body and
worked their way up to her face, he said to the blonde who stood
next to Peggy, “A shot of Tessa.”
How pathetic, Tessa thought, but she played along with the
game for a moment. She had time. She knew Justin would smoke a
cigarette or two before expecting her to come calling like a little
servant girl. “Let me guess, right here on this bar?” she asked,
leaning inwards, allowing her sweaty bosom to reveal a perfect gap
between two swollen breasts. “Shall I just lay down naked across
this here bar and let you have your way with me?”
Peggy was giggling behind her, biting on the collar of her
shirt. You can lay me down across that bar.
Trey became excited and with a huge smile upon his face
he said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way Ms. Tessa.”
Tessa gave a wink to her friend Peggy, who by this time
was obviously caught in the young man’s pathetic attempt at being
romantic and sexual. “I have a better idea Trey,” Tessa started in a
low whisper. Her chest was pulsating and he was sucked in. “How
‘bout I call your mama and tell her what a fool you’re acting up
here? And how you come in here just to disrespect women?” She
gave a stern look and finished with, “What do you say to that?”
Trey leaned back in the barstool and looked around to
notice some of the older men, now engaged in his conversation
with Tessa. One of them was sporting a fishing hat cocked
sideways on his head and laughing.
“You tell ‘em sugar,” one of the older men said. “These
boys these days don’t know nothin’ ‘bout romance.”
Trey, being embarrassed told the group of men to fuck off
and demanded a cold beer from Peggy, who quickly obliged his
rude request, hurrying across the bar to fetch his drink.
Tessa watched as Trey was celebrated by his high-school
buddies who slapped his hand and congratulated him on his efforts
to make some time with the whore behind the bar, as they referred
to her in private. Watching their antics saddened her greatly. Maybe
they were all right? Maybe she was nothing but a whore who
deserved to be loved about as much as a beggar on the streets
deserved some change.
“Say what you want,” Tessa said under her breath to the
celebrated Trey Phillips and his friends. “Jerk.”
No matter what people said about her, or how the town’s
folk acted when she was around, Tessa was confident in her
inclinations about one thing and it wasn’t her sexual background.
She had a secret romance with the broken man who lost
his wife and son and she was sweet to him, and she thought of him
often and weathered the pains of his life in each passing story as
they were relayed to her or told over drinks by the drunken men
and women in the bar over the course of six years.
Justin was the talk of the town for the first year after the
crash. He paced up and down the streets around the hospital and
he lived under a bridge near the site of his accident for close to two
years. Justin checked into Seymour’s emergency room a young
man, a father, a husband, a friend and a lover and he walked out on
that dreadful November afternoon into a darkening clouded world
he did not know, carrying a hurt he could not comprehend, with
nothing and no one to stand beside him. He was often seen pacing
slowly up and down the streets and just as often caught talking to
himself or addressing the ground, just over his shoulder. Many
people said he was looking for and addressing his shadow, which
too had died and left him hollow and alone. There were people in
town, those who tried to help him, offering their condolences with
curious and fictitious smiles, money, food and clothing. When he
stopped taking these items from the people, he took up refuge
under an old bridge near the site of the accident where people
continued to leave notes, cards with money, more blankets and
more food. Eventually the uncertainty of who he was wore thin
and self pity moved in and found a home and refuge within his
mind, suffocating whatever goodness still clung to his heart and he
hid from the world. He opted to speak to only one man—Ralph
Parison—the lanky old gentleman who ran the local I.F.A.
Foodstore in town. Rumors say that Mr. Parison offered Justin a
home, essential toiletries and food in exchange for general labor.
Whatever the speculations in town, the only truths were this:
Justin lived in a broken cabin just north of town owned by
one Ralph Winslow Parison and he could be found picking up
crates of food in what appeared to be Ralph’s rusted 1952
Chevrolet pickup truck, every other Saturday night just after store
closing. In those crates were a few cartons of Lucky Strike
cigarettes, bottles of cheap whiskey, toilet paper, razors, tooth
paste, canned foods, salamis, bread and a few other general items
not to mention two Sunday papers from the previous two weeks as
well as the Sunday handouts from the town church. He turned
down offers for girly magazines which frightened Ralph Parison
something awful because he knew what type of devils could be
created within the soul of a man if he opted to suppress his natural
born instinct to worship the female body.
On those every-other-Saturday night trips into town, if you
looked closely enough in the darkest corner of The Hawk’s Nest,
you could see him, uncomfortably sipping his whiskey between
puffs of cigarette smoke. Between clutched fists and stout drinks
he thought of what he lost, all the while following Tessa Jameson’s
every move with his sad brown eyes. His eyes followed her tonight.
He never looked up from his darkened table in the corner
when he called for her. “Waitress!” he shouted.
“I’ll be right there sweetie,” Tessa said from across the bar,
adjusting her appearance nonchalantly, straightening her dress and
touching her hair and her curls.
“Well there you go,” Peggy said, sliding a beer to one of
the older men at the bar. “You turn down the young stud that I
know can make you happy in the sack and your knight in shining
armor comes a callin’.”
“Peggy, please,” Tessa said. “Not tonight.” Justin just needs
some love and attention, that’s all, she thought to herself. “Now go tend
to your stud and his Hillbilly followers Peggy and mind your
business.” Compassion Tessa, she reminded herself. Breathe in. Your
hair is fine. Breathe out. Your dress is fine. You’re fine.
People were sympathetic, naturally compassionate—more
so because of the alcohol—but still they kept their distance. A
young medical assistant told her friend, who then told another
friend, who shared it with others at a bingo hall one evening of
how Justin treated one of the local pastors—Reverend Hillard Ray
Polk—the day he regained consciousness in the hospital and it
became immediately concluded that if a bona fide man of God could
not reach him, that it was a lost cause for others to try. Eventually
he just became Justin, the poor lost soul encapsulated within an
otherwise dying body who lost his wife and son in a terrible
accident while passing through their one horse town, as Peggy liked
to refer to it.
Tonight, life went on in The Hawk’s Nest as it had so
many Saturday nights before. Music played, smoke circled and lined
the ceilings, people hugged and danced and laughed and others
cried just enough to be held and they worked to gain the attention
they were so desperately missing at home. People fell in love and
though it is uncommon considering the setting, there was rarely a
fight. To say the least, The Hawk’s Nest was a happy place full of
happy drunks and it became a sanctuary for the lost proud souls of
this small chapter of the world. And through the smoke and fading
light of the bar, the beer breath and the haze, one bright star shined
above the rest. She was his waitress.
“I need a drink over here!” Justin shouted from his
darkened seat at his small round table.
No one tended to his table but her. And although he never
truly hurt anyone with anything more than a few crude comments,
the other waitresses and staff—the most of whom was Peggy—
always felt uncomfortable around him, as if they owed him
something more than simple bartending service. Peggy couldn’t
stand him and she made it very clear on one past occasion that she
would never serve as his waitress again. But Justin still had Tessa.
He never had to get up to order a drink and except for one night,
long ago when Tessa did not show up for work, he rarely caused a
scene.
Tessa eased from behind the bar and slipped past fondling
hands and fingertips of the older patrons and reassured him again,
“I’ll be right there sweetie to take care of you.”
She looked over and through some of the people who were
congregated together at the bar, picking up drinks and dropping
payments on their tab. She hoped she would catch him looking for
her, but he never looked up from his table, he only shouted.
Tessa did not fear the man who nestled himself in the
corner with his whiskey and cigarettes; she did not fear the wrath
that only waited for an opportunity for someone to answer his call.
She did not fear his broken face or his bitter attitude, his hobbling
walk or the rage that beamed from his gaze, but rather she was
drawn to him. Tessa had been drawn to him from the beginning.
Something in that broken figure made her heart yearn to know
him. Something in his lost lonely stare drew her heart ever close to
him and she wanted desperately to touch his hands or hold his face
and look into his sad brown eyes. Those are the things she
imagined while alone at night.
“Can I get a drink?” Justin shouted again.
He never made direct eye contact with anyone and because
of this Tessa believed if she had the opportunity to make him look
at her—truly look into her eyes—that she could do the impossible.
Tessa had somehow convinced herself that his heart ached to be
loved by only her but she never told a soul save God Almighty.
And this simple act of compassion made Tessa Jameson, the town
whore and head barkeep at The Hawk’s Nest, the most beautiful
woman in the world. She just didn’t know it.
Justin waited for her, chain smoking, and playing with a
glass ash-tray. He kept his head low and watched the people in the
bar. He caught the stares of Trey Phillips and his buddies, dancing
and singing and drinking together in the opposite corner of the bar.
He watched them staring at him, laughing and whispering to
themselves until they directed their attention elsewhere in a manner
as if to go unnoticed.
What the hell is he staring at? Justin thought. Where’s my
waitress? God already, how damn long does it take to get a goddamn drink?
He was beginning to feel nervous with so many eyes staring back
and forth between him and themselves and he started to get angry.
“Save me from this moment,” he said under his breath and not a
moment too late, Justin spotted her, and the tension that came with
being so uncomfortable and alone when surrounded by large
crowds of people, slowly vanished. She was on her way.
Tessa was tall and slender and she was developed in every
aspect of the body a woman hates to discuss openly in public and
in every way all men love but rarely admit to. Her shoulder length
hair was a dirty blond and straight with light hints of curl towards
the ends. She wore it back and tied in a bow behind her neck and
allowed one strand of curls to dangle in front of her left eye,
masking her own insecurities from the world. She used that curl to
hide her eyes as she stared across the bar, ignoring everyone and
everything that moved within the Nest, hoping Justin would see
her amidst the smoke and dancing drunks. She would get a tingly
sensation that started low upon her back and it wound its way up
to her neck every time she caught him looking her way, or found
his eyes searching the bar for what she knew was her presence. She
had a subtle way of hiding within the crowd to confirm her ideas of
his feelings for her. But through it all, her cat and mouse game she
liked to play with him, his eye contact remained minimal and
discreet at best.
“What’ll it be tonight sweetie? Same as usual?” she asked,
placing a small stack of napkins on his table.
About damn time. Justin nodded his head in agreement and
stared at her hands as she placed his napkins upon his table. He
stared only for one second, paying especially close attention to the
texture of her skin. He never noticed her hands before this night.
Her skin was smooth and tanned because of the hours she
spent outside enjoying the sun. Tessa spent her free time working
in a garden around the home where she lived. And as often as
Tessa could, while the other tenants were away working dayshift
jobs, she would sneak outside and lie nude in the sun to get a
complete tan.
“Double Jack Daniels and a Coke? Is that right sweetie?”
Frustrated with having to wait so long for his alcohol, he
grunted something of a disgruntled yes. He reached into the pocket
of his jeans and pulled out a folded twenty-dollar bill and tossed it
in her direction.
Tessa knew what he wanted but she enjoyed hearing him
converse with her, even if at times his conversation was limited to
low moans and grunts. She waited for a response, a response that
was not coming. “Okay. Be right back handsome,” she said with a
smile, tilting her head downwards, searching for his eyes with her
head. She took a risk, reaching down with her hand, taking a
chance on touching him, but he pulled away quickly. “I’ll take care
of you Justin.”
Justin shook her comments off and under his breath he
said, “I bet you will take care of me.”
She did not hear him. She turned and walked away, folding
his twenty-dollar bill neatly into her apron, as if it were a special
note—perhaps even a love letter—written only to her. She gave
him one more look, smiled, and walked away.
Tessa had a sexy radiance. She always wore old summer
dresses to work, leaving one or two buttons opened along the top
which revealed a hot and sweaty neckline and bust, trickled and
glistening with sweat from her drive to work. She showed up to
work sweaty and then found a quiet spot alone in the back office of
the bar before beginning her shifts, allowing the air conditioning to
cool her down and the floor ventilation to blow up and along her
feet and legs and under her dress; she always ended up sweaty again
by the end of the night. This came with the territory and the
environment in which she worked.
Justin watched her as she walked away. She appeared to
walk on air at times, with a light spring in her step as if the drunken
world around her did not exist. He followed her body with his eyes,
starting at her head, her lovely hair, as he would put it. Then his eyes
followed down her backside and he watched as the cotton material
of her dress bounced up and down as it straddled and folded
within the crack of her round bottom. He finished his stares at her
legs and then her soft ankles, noticing the small anklet draped just
above her sneakers.
Tessa enjoyed being barefoot or at best in sandals because
she enjoyed the feel of the breeze upon her feet and toes, but at
work she wore an old dingy pair of running shoes, weathered by
hours spent hustling across The Hawk’s Nest to earn a tip or by
spilt beer and occasional vomit.
She paused halfway between him and the bar, easing
around a group of people and while she waited for them to stop
dancing, she looked to him again with her big round eyes. Hi Justin,
she thought. He looked and quickly returned his attention to his
cigarettes and the glass ashtray. He was shaking his head.
Her eyes were the loveliest part of her physical appearance.
They were light hazel and perfectly round and drunken men loved
to get lost in them as they ordered their usual drinks, caught within
the mysteriousness of her one eye hidden secretly behind her curls.
Her lips were small and soft and reddened without lipstick and her
teeth were slightly crooked. If Tessa Jameson were born anywhere
in the world but this small dirty town of Seymour, she may have
been a movie goddess or model lusted over in magazines by men
and lustful boys in bathrooms, but instead she was reduced to
nothing more than poor white trash, with a perfect body, in a dirt
poor town and altogether unloved and misunderstood.
Justin didn’t want to spend too much time with her at his
table because he felt as though everyone was watching them both,
dancing around the topic of not wanting to speak to one another.
For nearly four years he visited The Hawk’s Nest and he tried with
all his might to appear discreet in his desire to have her close to
him. She made him feel at ease despite having the reputation for
being a whore and he couldn’t find it in himself to show her
anything more than the usual rude behavior she had suffered for
years to accept.
He hadn’t spent hours in conversation with her and he
hadn’t made friends with her co-workers to learn anything more
about her than what was relayed in stories at the bar. Despite his
secluded life within the cabin, gossip still found its way to his ears,
probably because he listened for stories as they were told about her
by drunken men and women at the bar. He was no one to judge
and he knew this and he had no definitive proof to say the least,
but her reputation had become small town common knowledge, no
matter how true or unreal the accusations were. Justin, though
broken and battered, and lost without a purpose or reason worth
living, couldn’t bring himself to tell her how he felt when she was
around.
Tessa turned and disappeared into the drunken crowd. Old
men reached for her while she scooted passed them. One of the
men stopped her, clutching onto her wrist and he began talking to
her breasts, never once looking up at her face. She set one hand on
his shoulder and smiled at him and his friends, showering them
both with gratitude for their obvious compliments and tips; Justin
could see the old man’s hands making their way downwards, from
high on her shoulder blades, almost hugging her, down towards her
lower back, and ultimately settling on her round bottom. He hated
it.
Damn whore, Justin thought.
Justin began to get upset with himself, first for paying too
much attention to her and secondly for getting upset with the
patron’s acts of placing their hands upon her bottom. What the hell
is wrong with you? She’s a whore, he thought.
For reasons beyond his comprehension, Justin had an
earnest desire to be near her this evening. With the coming of the
morning sun and the stirring of the approaching storm, his natural
desires to be near another human had been sparked. As hard as he
tried to drown the memories of his past, his heart yearned for that
sense of peace again, a glimpse of what he felt just moments ago
when she set his napkins upon his table and set his mind at ease.
I’ll take care of you Justin.
Justin watched as Tessa pushed her way through the
partying crowd, returning again with a dark colored drink in a small
glass carefully held in one hand. Finally, he thought. She started in
his direction then turned and stopped at a nearby table. Hey, that’s
my damn drink. “Waitress!”
She heard him this time, and she held him steady with one
finger in the air, as if to imply she would be with him in a moment.
She’s ignoring you, he thought. “Waitress! I want my drink!
And make it a double!” he shouted again towards the crowd.
She turned and smiled, stopping a perverted hand as it
started to make its way up the backside of her dress. “Uh huh,” she
said, trying to let him see that she was working her way into his
direction despite the forest of friendly hands and fingers.
Justin began to feel anxious. He rarely showed any
indications that he might be scared or nervous in the presence of
another person, the least of which was his sexy waitress, but
tonight he was fighting back an overwhelming urgency to speak to
her—to look at her—to let her see him noticing her. Sitting there,
with his stomach churning and beginning to ache with a necessity
to drink, he started to become enraged with the men who reached
for her and grabbed her and stole his time away from her. A battle
had begun within his mind—the desire to be near her versus the
overwhelming uncomfortable sense that everyone was watching
him, staring at him, and may even possibly have known what he
was thinking or how he felt. He only yelled. “Make it a double!”
He wasn’t absolutely sure she heard him call out for a
double, but he waited, as patiently as he could, smoking cigarette
after cigarette between a tightened jaw and the longer he waited,
the more he felt the anticipation of wanting this woman who
wanted nothing more than to offer him some hope in the form of
kindness in return for his attention.
“Get your damn hands off her ass,” he said under his
breath, clenching firmly to the glass ashtray.
Justin continued to watch. Tessa was moving one way and
being pulled in different directions, first by one man and then by
another and despite her smiles, he could feel her frustration with
having to deal with the mass hoard of sexually frustrated men. He
continued to watch, waiting on his drink and through the hazy fog
created by the thickened atmosphere of cigarette smoke, he became
momentarily lost between the memories of his past and the present
and he pictured her instead as his wife, struggling to serve drinks
and tend to her tables. He wanted to run to her, to move in and
save her, but instead he said and did nothing. It was as if his legs
were locked in one position and although his heart beat with a
desire to protect her, his mind told him to stay and his body
wouldn’t move. He came to again when the blurry vision of his
wife was erased by the sexy silhouette of the blonde.
“I’m so sorry sweetie,” she said, finally making it over to
his table. She rolled her head, reliving some of the tension in her
neck and with a napkin she patted the sweat from her chest. “Can
you believe this crowd tonight?” she asked.
I don’t care about the crowd, Justin thought. Ask her to stay. Ask
her to sit with you. He sipped his drink and gave a half hearted smile.
Oh my god, she thought. “Justin? Sweetie, is that a smile?”
No.
 “Oh shit,” she realized. “You asked for a double, didn’t
you? I’m sorry Justin. I’ll be right back.”
Don’t go.
She wadded the sweaty napkin into one hand and prepared
herself for another trip through the large crowd of drunks and
fondling fingertips. “Okay,” she said, pulling the ends of her dress
down with one hand. “Be right back sweetie.”
Without considering the consequences for his actions,
Justin reached for her, hoping to grab an end to her dress, to stop
her from leaving his side, but he missed. Tessa never saw him reach
for her.
—5—

To Justin an eternity could have passed in the moments

between her turning away from him and his reaching for her hand.
Somehow amidst the pain of his losses and his mannerisms in
shielding his heart and his soul’s ability to breathe, he always
noticed her and still he despised her. Like a man who suddenly
became consciously aware that he was on the cusp of committing
adultery, Justin found himself afraid of his feelings of newness and
life. One demon in his mind tormented his soul and used his lack
of closure in his loss to Christy and their son against his heart’s
willingness to beat new again. Opposite that demon was a force he
failed to acknowledge for close to six years and it felt to him as
though his heart was breaking all over again.
He could see in that dirty blond waitress a glimpse of what
he held close to his heart and still, somehow, he felt guilty as if he
were betraying the wife he never had a chance to tell good-bye.
He finished the entire glass of whiskey before she
disappeared again into the crowd and squeezed her way behind the
bar to pour his double Jack Daniels and Coke. He chewed on
broken pieces of ice, and let them fall back into his glass, sucking
the flavor from each cube and again he waited.
Trey Phillips was next in line to distract her. Having more
than his share of the legal limit of alcohol in his blood, he was
beginning to slur his words and smiling more often than he might
when he wasn’t drunk. Peggy thought he was charming the more
he drank and Tessa thought him to be repulsive.
 “Hey sexy,” he said, reaching for Tessa as she slipped from
behind the bar. She was careful not to spill Justin’s drink. “Is that
for me baby?” he asked, wrapping one arm around her lower
midsection and waist.
“As a matter of fact, it’s not Trey. You need to get your
hands off me before I tell all your buddies what a small penis you
have.”
Trey smiled. He considered her bullying tactics to be an act
of foreplay. “Now, why would you go and do a thing like that
baby?” he asked, clutching her body against his. His breath reeked
of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Tessa was being polite in her
attempt at pulling away from him, not allowing anyone to see the
true struggle at hand. Trey sucked on a cigarette and argued her
attempt at pulling away from him, smoke fumbling out of his
mouth like a thickened fog.
“Trey stop it,” Tessa insisted. “You’re going to make me
spill this drink. Now quit it.”
She tried but Tessa could not mask her struggles to escape
the clutches of Trey Phillips, from the broken pirate who watched
her every move from the corner of the bar. Justin was watching the
courteous struggle unfold from his darkened corner. He didn’t
make a move; he didn’t jump up to save her. Justin knew it wasn’t
his place to come to her aid. He felt a woman like Tessa brought
her struggles upon herself by the lifestyle she chose to live and
despite his earnest desire to be tender, to be soft on this night, he
did nothing. Instead, he became increasingly upset by having to
wait so long for his poison. And the longer he waited, the more he
wanted Trey’s hands off her ass.
Tessa stopped struggling to release herself, realizing the
harder she worked to pull away, the harder he worked to hold her
in place. “Trey, please,” she said.
 The sound of the word please gave Trey a sudden rush of
courage, like a predator might feel when its prey is crying for mercy
on the ground, its legs aiming helplessly towards the sky. “Please
what?” he asked.
He smiled and held his cigarette in place between his lips,
and still clutching onto her with one arm, he let his opposing hand
fall down the small of her back, under and up her dress, until he
found the firm round tenderness of her bottom. “Please what?”
His intent became more serious.
Justin could see Trey’s hand, working to follow the
contours of her thighs and he could see the hurt in Tessa’s eyes,
despite her attempts at acting flirtatious with the young Trey
Phillips. And again like a clouded dream, Tessa’s image was washed
away, drowned out in the thickening smoke, and replaced by the
likeness of his deceased wife. He shook his head as he tried to clear
his mind and he lit another cigarette to occupy some time and
appear busy with other thoughts.
No one gives a shit, Justin thought. He watched the people in
the bar; the ladies ignored Tessa and her struggle with Trey, Peggy
smiled, lusting over the idea that it could be her ass in the young
stud’s hands, and some of the men acted as though they weren’t
aware of her struggle or couldn’t sense her silent plea for help.
Every second in Trey’s grasp was another moment she felt cheap
and used. Not far from where the two appeared locked in a
romantic dance, Trey’s high school buddies began whistling,
hoping to get a peek at the whore’s lovely round bottom as Trey
worked to raise the backside of her dress.
The more Justin tried to ignore her, the more he thought
about her. Every other Saturday night over the course of nearly
four years he sat lonely and desolate with his pity and double
whiskeys and throughout the entire history of his visits to The
Hawk’s Nest, never once did he desire the company of that dirty
blonde as strongly as he wanted her this night. Something inside
him had awoken and it was getting harder for Justin to fight back
the urgency to let loose the emotions and voice that were calling
from within.
Justin took his attention away from her, but only for a
moment, to search the crowd uncomfortably, as though somehow
everyone knew his thoughts and discovered his intentions. He
began to feel ashamed and embarrassed. What the hell is wrong with
you?
The battle waged onward in his mind and with each
thought and consideration for her feelings he puffed harder on his
cigarettes, blowing smoke more rapidly, like the train that was
roaring and rumbled through the town. He followed the outline of
his table with his eyes, around and around the table that had
become his workbench, where he planned and plotted his own
demise or suffered nights alone in his cabin. He considered his
own death for a moment, hoping the darkness that came with
considering his destruction would help deter his considerations for
her, to get his mind off the town whore. The harder he tried, the
harder it became for him to pretend as though she didn’t exist. He
couldn’t ignore her voice, her whispers through the crowd—her
silent cries for help, the whispers that may have been meant for
him to hear.
“Trey I’m serious! That’s enough!” Tessa said. Her voice
floated to Justin’s ears like silt on the tops of water, through the
laughter of the crowds, the sounds of the sad music in the jukebox,
the train as it blew its horn and the crunching sound of gravel in
the parking lot.
Tessa reached the point where she could no longer take the
harassing antics and she pried Trey’s hands away from her bottom.
An older man’s eyes widened when he got a good glimpse of her
entire backside. She didn’t care; Tessa was beyond embarrassment
by this point.
My drink, Justin thought. As careful as she had worked to
save his whiskey, it was too late. In her struggle, the dark brown
liquid had spilled over, several times, running down the sides of the
glass and trickling its way down her arm, towards her elbow. “Son
of a bitch!”
“Goddammit Trey!” Tessa yelled. “Stop it!”
Trey yelled and pulled his hand away from her backside as
Tessa dug her nails into the skin atop his hand. “You stupid bitch!”
Trey yelled, pulled his hand away and then, using his free hand, he
reached for his cigarette and stabbed downwards, catching her arm
near the elbow and he burned her, extinguishing his cigarette in her
skin. Tessa screamed.
By this point Justin’s head was bobbing and his eyes were
lost in a trance somewhere between watching his dirty blonde
waitress struggle to release herself from the clutches of Trey
Phillips and the imagination of his deceased wife. He watched the
entire episode, hazy like the smoke filled bar, play out in his mind
and he became enraged.
“Get the hell away from her!” a voice demanded.
The bar became silent and someone whispered, “Was that
Justin?” He couldn’t discern the sounds of life anymore. To him it
appeared as though someone had lowered the volume on the world
around him, one item at a time. The sounds of the party ceased to
exist. The trains whistle blew and then faded into the sounds of the
wind. The crunching sound of gravel below the tires of a stopping
car faded until it was as soft as the sounds of sand below a child’s
feet.
“Was that Justin?”
Who the hell said that? Justin asked himself.
He was busy being discreet in his concerns for her,
masking the desire to catch Trey Phillips by his throat thereby
forcing the young man to get away from her. He needed a drink to
help calm his nerves and he was upset for having to wait so long.
Life within The Hawk’s Nest was still and the people no longer
danced nor sang along with the music, and somewhere between his
concern for his drink that was running down the sides of Tessa’s
elbow and his urgency to save her, he yelled, what he thought was a
plea for a double whiskey. But in all actuality he had not. In his
mind he was positive he demanded she bring his drink at once but
what came out was the complete opposite to what he was thinking.
“Get the hell away from her!” That’s what the people
heard and in hearing his voice, his concern to save her, the bar fell
silent. Trey stopped massaging his hand, Tessa stopped rubbing the
burnt skin folding away from her forearm, and Peggy stopped
lusting over the young man who only moments ago was openly
violating her friend.
Justin forced himself to stand upright and he began to feel
the curious stares of every member of the sanctuary looking to
him, at him, like the coyotes that wondered along the hillside
across the lake from his cabin at night. He could no longer see
their faces, he saw only their eyes. Are you fucking crazy? Standing
there, scared and unsure of how to react with so many people
looking to him, Justin answered himself softly. “No. I am not
crazy.”
Tessa moved away from Trey, pushing her way through
the standing mob of drunken lovers and she was rubbing her
forearm with the wet rag she used to wipe the tables. Her beautiful
round hazel eyes were penetrating him, piercing his stony heart and
she looked to him and found him looking to her.
“Justin?” she asked in a whisper.
Every set of eyes in the bar were now focused on him. He
looked down, his eyes following the lining of the table, round and
round they went, spinning as did his mind. He could hear the
whispers and feel the heat of every onlooker’s gaze. He began to
get warm and uncomfortable, shifting as though his clothes
somehow no longer fit.
“Justin?” she asked again, her eyes beginning to glaze over
with tears. Say something.
He was frozen, thoughtless. She asked a complex question,
by only saying his name. All the countless nights he walked into her
bar, to drink, to hide away from the world, only to become
enchanted by her beauty, her thoughtfulness, her compassion, and
here, years later, when he finally believed he had something worth
saying, he couldn’t find the words to begin. He became angry with
himself, shoving his chair away with his legs.
Listening to her call his name aloud reminded Justin of
better moments in his life, a time when he was younger, a child
perhaps, being called in to supper by his loving mother—a mother
who had passed long ago leaving Justin to himself without a single
parent to stand beside him when life became difficult and hard. She
could have been his wife. For one brief moment, despite his
embarrassment, Justin was young and innocent and he existed in
this life without fear or loss or any understanding of the cruel
nature of the world. His throat became thick and it was hard for
him to swallow and sweat began to form and trickle down his
forehead and over his cheeks. He began to get hot. He reached
down and backwards, searching for his chair with his hands to set
himself down again. He looked for her in the cloud of smoke and
disregarded the stares of angry men looking back at him as if he
somehow had hurt her.
His eyes searched the bar and he looked for her, to her,
and a sudden realization came to him: he longed for her. How
many nights had he come to this bar? How many nights had he sat
in his corner, hating the world and despising her sincerity? How
many nights had he wished she would leave him alone and go away
only to wish her back again when she left? How many nights in the
cabin did he think of her and how many times did he look forward
to his trips to town? Now here he was, captured within the
moment he thought he was ready for and nothing came out, only
hatred and discontent.
“The hell with you,” he said.
 Some of the people who stood by, witnessing first hand
the emotional conversation as it played out between the lovely
barmaid and the broken lost soul, paused as if to get a better
understanding of what they were witnessing. There had developed
an unwritten love song and dance between the two over the course
of his years spent visiting The Hawk’s Nest and no one directly
spoke of it, at least not in front of Tessa. Some of the older drunks
thought Justin was a fool because they figured if you added all the
loss they suffered throughout their lives, it evened the loss he
suffered only once in his youth. The older ladies thought it was
somehow romantic to see them dance around the topic of how
they felt for one another. And here they were, face to face, and he
spoke up in an effort to save her from further brutality from a
young man who wanted nothing more from her than what her
body had to offer.
The bar remained silent, with the exception of the
occasional cough and the continuance of the music. She said his
name again, under her breath. “Justin.”
Justin was dizzy and he looked to his table again, round
and round his eyes followed the contour of the small wooden
workbench and he felt himself losing his balance. He caught
himself, resting his hand upon the table and in doing so, he
knocked over his glass, watching it shatter as it hit the ground,
breaking into small pieces—pieces that were beyond repair like the
life Justin had succumbed to live.
Tessa noticed him stumble and she immediately made her
way towards him, pushing through drunks who by then had
gathered in front of her, distorting her view of Justin. But by the
time she made her way around the mass of people, he was gone,
and nothing remained in his darkened corner but spilt whiskey and
broken glass. She caught a glimpse of him, hurriedly moving
towards the door. She reached for him as he passed and missed. He
never saw the gesture.
—6—

Tessa chased after him, pushing her way passed Trey

Phillips and a few other spectators as they gathered to watch Justin
storm out the front door. Trey was busy getting sympathy from
Peggy, allowing her to hold his hand as he appeared to show no
remorse for extinguishing a burning cigarette on Tessa’s forearm.
Not a man said a word about the incident. The only person who
appeared to be offended by his actions had already removed
himself from the clouded stench of drunks.
She caught the front door as it was swinging back to the
closed position, stopping it with both hands. She waited, taking in a
breath, feeling the burning sensation on her arm and collecting her
thoughts to help determine how she was to approach her situation
with Justin. She rested her forehead on the tiny peephole in the
center of the door and pulling her head away she stared with one
eye through the tiny round piece of glass, hoping to catch a
distorted glimpse of him hobbling away but there was nothing.
There was a sense of relief that came with the
embarrassment. She felt a stand-off with him was long overdue and
she knew it was time to openly share her feelings with him and she
hoped that in return he would do the same for her, confirming her
inclinations about him. And standing there, her back facing a
judgmental world of drunks and adulterated lovers, Tessa imagined
how Justin felt those first two years living under the bridge and
these past few years alone in the cabin, like some carnival sideshow
act. He had to have known everyone who saw him was working to
pass some form of judgment upon him and in their pathetic minds
they were working to repair his life, knowing they were uncertain
how to correct the damage in their own world.
Tessa looked over her shoulder, becoming annoyed with
the same thoughtless stares Justin had to deal with just moments
before, as they burned holes upon her back. There was a man who
worked the bar with her and Peggy; his name was Carl Lee, and he
tried to come to her aid in an act to save face, but she only shooed
him away, shielding the tears and the emotion that had begun to
overtake her. Whispers continued and she could hear the faint
murmurs already beginning to accumulate. She collected herself for
a brief moment, wiping a swelling tear with one finger, and turning
to address the masses, she asked aloud, “Should we close early
tonight?” No one said a thing. She caught the look of her friend
Peggy and she appeared to be embarrassed for her actions, still
holding Trey Phillips by the hand. Her friend turned and
disappeared behind the bar, leaving her stud to tend to his own
pains. “Then get your asses back to your drinks and mind your
own damn business people!”
Someone shouted from the back of the bar, “I’ll drink to
that,” and the small groups began to laugh and talk amongst
themselves again and as steady and still as the room had remained
just moments before, like actors in a play who had been called to
action, they continued to go about their lives as they had before
their interruption by the two discreet lovers. The music began, the
smoke flowed like a cloudy river lining the ceilings and the Hawk’s
Next came back to life. To the masses, life was good again.

Tessa looked left and looked right before she found him.
Justin was fumbling with his keys, working quickly to escape in his
rusted ’52 when she came outside. She took in a breath to buy her
some time and consider her actions, but there was nothing.
Her mind was racing too fast to concentrate on how or what to
say. All the years rehearsed in preparation for this one moment
became a blur and her thoughts were lost to her. The train
bellowed in the distance like a symbolic reminder for the dread she
was now beginning to feel in her heart. She pushed her way
through a couple that was coming in to have some drinks,
separating them at the hip, and she never looked back to say she
was sorry.
Oh God, don’t leave, she thought. “Justin! Wait! Why are you
leaving?”
He didn’t look at her, but only reached down to grab his
bum knee, working to massage his pains.
“Justin, answer me! Please do not ignore me.”
He stood still, nervously working the key in and out of the
keyhole in the driver’s side door. His head was down when he
addressed her. “What do you want?” He began to breathe more
heavily. He waited for her to reply, almost needing her to respond
to help determine his next words, his next moves to help him
decide what he could possibly say next. “Why do you even bother
woman? When are you gonna learn to leave me alone?”
“I don’t think you want that,” she said, just happy she
could catch him before he fled. “I want to help you,” she began
again, wishing she could take the words back as soon as she said
them. Think Tessa. You’re going to run him away.
“Help me?” he asked bothered by the sound of her words.
“Do I look sick to you?” What the hell do you know about help? For all
he knew about her, she was the type to destroy things, not mend
them. She was the type of woman who destroyed homes, happy
homes, and ruined marriages for her own lustful desires. This is
what he taught himself to believe.
Yes. “Well maybe not help you Justin, but I thought I
might…”
 “You thought you might what?” He began to feel
infuriated with her and the idea that she, like the others, felt as
though they could somehow magically heal his pains. That they in
some miraculous way could erase the loss he suffered like chalk on
a blackboard and with a few kind words or pats on the back could
somehow destroy the memory of the life he once enjoyed. A life he
once cherished and loved. He was frustrated with the idea that
people felt as though they owed him something— salvation of
some sort—or worse, maybe even pity. Justin had become
comfortable with his own self pity and he had no desire to take the
emotional handouts as they were offered.
The people he hated the most were those who believed
that God was his source of salvation and that if he believed and
submitted to a source of higher power he might somehow be
rescued from his pains, as if his wife and son might be returned to
him in some miraculous fashion. He had always heard of the
tranquil sense of peace that came with those who worshipped the
one eternal being but yet for all the time spent alone under the
bridge—nearly two years living on leftover food and pocket change
—Justin thought he should have found God if anyone would have.
Living under the bridge, surviving the elements—the rain, the dark,
the quiet and the solitude—he felt as though he did not, as if his
silent cries went unheard. Unnoticed.
Instead, he found only himself, his own voice, his own
thoughts, and his own wits to keep him alive. The word help
became synonymous with charitable discontent. He wanted
nothing to do with the world’s help, the least of which came in
spiritual form. And in his solitude, a place so quiet and so still,
where men come to realize who they are, Justin lost himself.
She put her head down, responding again with the same
words. “Help you,” she said in a whisper. “I thought I might be
able to help, that’s all Justin.”
“You don’t even know me,” he said. “How could you
possibly help someone you don’t even know or understand?” he
asked, getting louder and in doing so, he punched downwards with
his fist, slamming the handle to the driver’s side door.
He startled her. “Maybe I don’t know you Justin, but I…”
she paused, remembering that she did know some things— lots of
things—about him, maybe not on some personal plane, but she
was there, after the crash and she had defended his right to be
alone when others were quick to cast judgment for his anger. Tessa
felt she had every right to defend him and she also felt very
strongly that she, more so than the majority of the town, had every
right to fight for him still.
“You what?” he asked, as if it suddenly mattered to him
what she thought. “You gonna bring my family back?”
They were momentarily interrupted by a passing car; it was
an older model Oldsmobile and the muffler was dragging and
scraping itself upon the gravel in the parking lot. A couple got out,
hand in hand, with the man escorting the woman out the driver’s
side door behind him and then as the two made for the front door,
there was poking and pinching of one another’s asses.
“Jesus,” Justin said under his breath. Will you look at this
shit?
On any other Saturday night this particular couple’s actions
would have tickled Tessa, not so much for their childish attempts
at being romantic, but because she knew they were lovers and
properties of other hearts. Considering her present state however,
the loss she felt by being so close to someone she wanted so
desperately to touch, only worsened when she made eye contact
with the couple. Their laughter seemed to weigh heavy on her
heart.
“Maybe it’s not about bringing them back to you Justin.”
She looked to him, then the ground, and back to him again. Be
careful Tessa. “Maybe it’s about letting them go,” she said, carefully.
They were simple words, but she knew that if not carefully stated
or properly spoken in a manner of being sincere, she risked the
chance of hurting him, pushing him further away, until he was
altogether lost.
If words were sharp and made of steel, these are the words
that would have put him on the ground. She could not have been
more right. He often wondered, while staring away at nothing but
darkness on the back porch to his cabin, if anyone would have
been so bold or so brave to challenge his right to grieve eternally.
He was glad she said it. “You don’t know shit woman!”
It was hard for him to rebut her words because he knew
she was right. And as hard as he worked to drown himself in self
pity and alcohol, he knew that one day a time would come where
he would have to make a choice—a choice to accept the loss and
move on with his life or the choice to end his misery and emotional
pain, and sleep forever.
“We all have things we carry with us Justin. Things we
won’t talk about to no one because they hurt too much to bring
them up. Then we don’t talk about them because we are afraid of
how others might perceive us. And sometimes I believe we’re
afraid because we’re not ready to hear the truth.”
He was ready to leave. “What the hell do you know about
it?” he asked.
“I know pain Justin,” she said softly, hoping the power of
her words would help seize the moment she was trying so hard to
capture. It was a moment that if timed properly, could help begin
the procession of taming the beast within Justin’s heart and the
rage and bitterness in his soul. “If there’s anything I know, it’s the
pain and the hurt that comes with feeling alone.”
With her head still lowered, down and towards the ground,
and staring at the oil stained pebbles with long strands of dirty
blonde hair blowing in the wind, he gave her a look, allowing
himself a moment to take in her beauty. It had become so hard for
him over the years to be so cruel to her. She was lovely to him, no
matter what people said about her. And he knew she had never
been anything but nice to him and he was aware that her intentions
always appeared pure and honest, but there still existed the rumors.
The stories that followed her like the trails of smoke left behind by
the heavy horn from a train. How could a man ever love someone
like her? How could he ever bring himself to love her?
“You know shit woman! Why can’t you just leave me the
hell alone? Quit followin’ me around and trying so damn hard to be
nice to me. I don’t need your fuckin’ pity!”
Why can’t you leave me alone? It was a good question, a
significant one at that, and she knew it. Why can’t you? She asked
herself. Why can’t you just go away and mind your own business?
“I can’t,” she said. She couldn’t because she had been here,
waiting on him, living her life and suffering the loss with him in an
imaginary world lost somewhere between her lonely apartment and
the smoke trailed ceilings of The Hawk’s Nest.
“You can! And you need to learn how to mind your own
damn business,” he said. “Just leave me be, will you? I don’t need
your help!”
“Mind my own business?” She looked up to him, allowing
the tears to flow without consideration for wiping them away. She
wanted him to see the hurt he was causing her. “Loss is everyone’s
business Justin, because when someone loses, we all lose. And
when your wife and son died…”
“Don’t you dare bring up my wife! You don’t know shit
about her and she was a hell of a lot better person than you and
she damn sure wouldn’t parade herself around like some damn…”
Whore.
Whore was the word he used, but it was whispered only
within his mind. Looking at her, tears swelling and falling down the
sides of her face, he couldn’t find it in himself to say it. He just
wanted to leave.
 She began to get angry with him, a side of her he had not
seen, not even in her actions against Trey Phillips and his perverted
buddies. “What? What the hell were you going to say? Don’t hold
back now dammit!” She pushed him. “You’re mister big shit,
cursing everyone out for coming too close! Don’t hold back now!”
“Nothing.” He had gone so long without having to answer
to anyone and having to do so now made him feel weak and out of
control with his life, a life that was destined by a pain and foolishly
misconstrued as being dictated by himself. Anger had become a
coat that no longer fit, worn in the middle of a season that didn’t
call for one.
“Bullshit Justin! What were you gonna say? You think I
don’t know what the world has to say about me behind my back
and in my face! And no I didn’t know her, but everyone knows
what happened and everyone feels the pain of that accident every
time they see you walkin’ in this bar, bitter and pissed off at the
world, as if we somehow stole her from you!” In her courage she
startled herself. She looked around, curious to see if Peggy or the
others had snuck out to catch a glimpse of their love spat in the
parking lot. She waited but there was nothing, no one whispering
behind her and nothing said from him. “What’s the matter?” she
asked, hoping to press him into an argument. “Can’t say the
word?”
He shook his head. “Just stay out of my business, will
you?” He suddenly felt himself growing weaker. Tired; he was
losing his willingness to fight.
She folded her arms across her chest and said, “For
someone who thinks he knows everything about me because he
heard a few rumors, you sure are quick to ask me to mind my own
business. I wonder how the hell you might know or think I’m a
whore, when really it’s my business, isn’t it?”
He was running out of reasons to hide behind his true
feelings for her. She was right and Justin knew it. He was upset
with her for meddling into his personal pain and anguish but yet he
was so quick to pass judgment on her, like the rest of the world,
without ever really knowing the truth of who she was and what she
stood for. He was so intent on punishing her for caring enough to
help weather some of his pains and for that, he had always been
rude and cruel to her. And here, face to face with her, he learned
that he was no better than the rest of the small town busybodies
who cast their judgment upon her as if her life were a collection
plate in church, tossed and ridiculed with smiles and nice clothing.
There was a silence between them, divided now only by the
winds and the sounds of passing cars and the heavy squeaks of
metal grinding against metal as the train came to a slow halt off in
the distance.
She began again, breaking the small town silence. “I know
you’re hurting Justin and I don’t believe you when you say that you
want me to leave you alone. I’ve watched you come into this bar
for years and I have been the only person willing to serve your
drinks and deal with your horrible, horrible attitude you give
everyone who tries to get near you.” She reached for him,
extending both hands outwards in an attempt to draw him near.
He reached up pushing her hands away and she began to
cry harder, still working to stand her ground. He scooted himself
back, catching his balance on the hood of the truck, leaving the
keys as they set dangling from the keyhole. Why do you try so hard
woman? “What the hell do you want from me?” he asked, working
to shield his own emotions, showing no remorse for slapping her
hands away.
Tessa knew what she wanted to tell him but in the
confusion of the moment she felt lost and uncertain of what
approach to take next. “How long do we have to play this game
Justin?” He looked to her. “How many more Saturday nights are
you gonna walk into this place and act like I don’t exist? How many
nights are you gonna watch my every move and get upset when
someone gets too close or gives the slightest, I don’t know,
gumption that they might treat me bad. Treat me like shit maybe?”
As the moments began to pass and he became steadier in
his retreat, she eased herself forward again, forcing him to deal
with her, knowing the keys were stuck in the door she was now
shielding with her body. “I have watched you leave, pissed at the
world, right out that door,” she said pointing over her shoulder,
“staggering ass drunk and I know it had little to do with your loss.”
“What?” Justin asked.
“I see you watching me. Watching me walk around and
wait on these slobberin’ ass drunks and I know you have more to
say to me than ‘get my fucking drinks’ and I don’t think you like it
when people call me a whore.”
Justin looked to her, seeing how much it hurt her just to
say the word. Look at you. How could I ever possibly hurt someone as lovely
as you? “You don’t understand,” he said in a whisper. “I’m not here
for you,” he said, trying to change the subject, avoiding the topic of
him and her, when he preferred to talk about him and his pity. He
could feel his guard slowly beginning to come down, like the way a
drunk might begin to feel when the alcohol begins to wear off, just
before bed and he felt scared, afraid for uncertainty.
“You think it doesn’t hurt me? You think I don’t have
feelings too? You think I don’t understand loss because, I don’t
know, I didn’t lose a loved one in an accident Justin?”
Justin began to get upset again, working to establish his
wits and maintain all sense of control in the situation. “Stop saying
my name dammit!”
Tessa looked to him sternly.
“I’m not playin’ with you woman. This isn’t a game.”
“Why do you have to treat me this way Justin? Of all
people, why you?” she asked.
“Stop it,” he said again. “You don’t know me woman!”
“I have had to deal with the name callin’, the stares, and
the gossip, all this small-town horse shit people come up with to
pass the time and for what? Do you think they really know who I
am? Do you think these people really care about how I feel? That I
work in a damn bar full of sweaty ole’ perverts and retired
mistresses and they still find reasons to call me an adulteress?”
Adulteress is not the word he heard whispered in the
corners of the bar on those nights he watched her parade around,
shaking her bottom and collecting her tips in her apron. “Everyone
knows your name woman!” He stopped himself from saying what
he thought he might regret. He heard the word begin to echo again
through his mind in a crescendo that bellowed like the whistle on
the train, fading and then bellowing again into a roar. Whore.
She flipped a long strand of curls over her head. “Yeah? I
suppose they know as much about me as they know about you.
Maybe more? Maybe less,” she said. “But I believe you listen to
them, because you want to know who I am as much as I have
worked to learn things about you.”
“My problems have nothing to do with you.” He spent so
many years in simplistic routine, a routine that would end only with
his death. Fear had kept him focused on his mission to end his
own life and anger was the tool he would use to keep people away
long enough for him to carry out the plans for his ruin. “You know
what?” he asked. “It’s time for you to get the hell away from me.”
“I’m not,” she demanded, grabbing him by his flannel
shirt, near the shoulder, forcing him to turn and face her. When
she did, he took hold of her, by the wrists and squeezed.
“I said that’s enough Tessa!”
Hearing him say her name held her still, calming her
emotions and relaxing her enough to allow him to sway her body
from side to side. “I said that’s enough, you hear me?” he said.
“Say my name again.”
Justin became soft. “Who the hell are you? Don’t you get
it? It doesn’t matter. Like everything else in this God-forsaken
world, it does not matter. You live, you love, you lose and then you
die. And that’s my mission, to end the pain.”
This had become her fear over the years, knowing that
tucked away in some secluded cabin off the lake, was the man she
had fallen in love with, a man she believed could be saved, not with
force, but with the power of love, something she wished to taste, if
not but once in her own life. It was a fear that kept her busy during
the days and it was a fear that kept her hopeful for those every-
other-Saturday nights where she would wait for him to walk into
the bar, taking in a heavy breath and letting out a sigh of relief each
time she saw him, knowing that hope had not been lost to him yet.
“There is still life to live Justin.”
She smiled and he let her go, taking a long moment to stare
into her round hazel eyes. He kicked rocks with his feet when he
turned away from her. Despite the argument, something stirred in
him and it made him feel somewhat alive again, though he couldn’t
pinpoint what it was. The intensity of his emotions increased his
heart rate and the blood began to flow. He was breathing heavy
and for a moment, appeared to care about how he was treating her.
“I don’t want to live my life like this any longer.”
She reached for him again, setting her hand upon his
shoulder. He looked down and away from her, but this time he did
not move. “Say my name Justin. Look at me and say my name
again. Say it as though you know who I am.”
“I know your name,” he said. “What do you want with
me?”
Tessa took in a heavy breath. “I want you to,” she started,
taking in another breath before correcting herself. “I need you to
look at me. I need you to look into my eyes Justin, the way you did
inside. The way you did when you stood up to defend me.” She
waited for him to return his attention back towards her and said,
“No one has ever stood up for me before.”
Like a game of tug-of-war, he wrestled with his emotions,
fighting the urge to hold her, to be soft to her and he grabbed her
by the wrists and squeezed, gaining all her focus and attention
upon him. “Please, stop talking to me as though you know
anything about me. Stop talking to me as though you know who I
am.”
She began to cry harder, tears trickling down in a steady
stream and saliva forming around her mouth as she spoke. “But
you stood up for me. Inside, in front of everyone, you stood up for
me. And why is that? Because you’re ready to call life quits? I don’t
believe that! I know if anything in this world can conquer hate, it’s
love Justin.”
All he heard was the word love and immediately became
infuriated with her. Love was a word he associated with his wife
and son, who were dead and buried, lost to him forever and he
wasn’t about to replace their memory with a woman who worked
in the bar and traded hugs and the false sense of security for sex.
Justin grabbed her again, but this time by the arms and
squeezed tight, shaking her and yelling. “What the hell do you
know about love? To know love is to give more of yourself to
another person you fucking whore!”
Tessa stood still, her lovely round eyes were soaked with
tears; her lips began to tremble. Her hair was tangled and a portion
of her curls were stuck in one corner of her mouth. Still staring
into Justin’s eyes, she shook her head side to side, as if to say no.
No to the voices in her head telling her she wasn’t good enough; no
to Justin for having so little faith in hope and humanity and no to
everyone who ever judged her or held her with little or no regard.
Tessa remained still, with eyes that seemed to penetrate
Justin’s very soul and it was in that moment she considered her
entire life and what it meant leading up to this day. She considered
the men, the booze, and the beatings. She remembered every let
down and heartache and the backsides of every lover who snuck
out her door in the mornings without saying good-bye.
 With tears in her eyes and the sadness upon her face, like a
child knowing her first heartbreak, she said to him, “You’re right
Justin. I know nothing about love. But I knew of a man who
obviously loved his wife and son enough to sacrifice the rest of his
living days for their loss. And if I know nothing else in this world, I
know that is an act of true love. Of real love Justin.”
He looked at her. He lost the anger and stared at his own
two hands after releasing her arms. He became sad and hurt and
afraid for what he had done, realizing he had squeezed her just
over the burn on her forearm.
All she had ever been was nice to him and he squeezed and
jerked her around like she had done something wrong to purposely
hurt him, as if she was the one who took them away from him, and
never once had she been anything but nice. The words, I know
nothing about love, replayed within his mind again and again, haunting
him and weighing heavily on his heart. He pushed his way passed
her, stepping over her as if she were some stranger on the streets
and he jumped into the truck before she caught a glimpse of the
tears that began to swell in his eyes.
He punched down on the accelerator and the truck’s
wheels kicked gravel in the air as he sped out of the parking lot,
leaving her to blow dust from her face and shield her body from
the loose rocks and gravel. She stood there, with one hand tucked
under the opposite arm, and one hand covering her mouth. She
was crying harder now. No train sounded in the background. No
music could be heard from The Hawk’s Nest. No couples
whispered any rumors. Tessa Jameson was again alone.
—7—

The winds had picked up, blowing steadily from every

direction, providing some relief from the hot Texas night. Tessa
held herself, with her arms folded tightly across her chest and she
got chills from the cooling air; she rubbed her forearms to provide
herself some relief, a warming sensation that she imagined to be a
hug from someone other than herself, possibly the man who just
left her standing in the parking lot. She paused to look at the burnt
skin and the newly forming scab caused by the extinguished
cigarette. It would leave a perfectly round mark the rest of her life.
Tessa remained alone and still in the parking lot, until she
could no longer see the fading red lights of Justin’s truck or hear
the sounds of his wheels against the two-lane blacktop. She turned,
making her way back towards the bar. No one was waiting for her
and no one stood watch to ensure she was okay. Everyone acted as
though they didn’t see or hear anything.
She escaped into her dismal world within The Hawk’s Nest
and everyone, in their own way, watched her with concern as she
walked in, holding her head down and her eyes hidden from sight.
She disappeared into the back office behind the large wooden bar.
Carl Lee said nothing, working to appear busy and Peggy,
who was laughing and tending to Trey and his friends, became
distraught when she noticed her friend slipping passed her.
“Tessa,” she called, but her friend kept moving, winding left and
then right through the crowd, and around the bar like a mouse in a
maze, finally disappearing behind the back office door.
 Tessa was shaking as she searched for a pack of cigarettes
she kept stashed in a lower desk drawer. The office was small and it
had one small steel desk with piles of paperwork and receipts, a
small window, and an old leather sofa, all originally owned by the
late Archie Hawkins. She lit a cigarette and propped open the
window using a broken broomstick. She remained as still as she
could, considering the emotional trauma and suffocation she felt
after having a face-to-face conversation with Justin. She stared at
the door, hoping though not necessarily wanting anyone to come
to her aid. Peggy stopped by, and judging by the shadows of her
feet at the base of the door, she was listening with one ear propped
against the large steel frame. And Tessa, in a subtle attempt to shoo
her away, preferring to be left entirely alone, started to sob loudly,
knowing that her friend would have nothing to do with tears.
When the two shadowy feet turned and disappeared, Tessa leaned
against the wall below the windowsill and smoked her cigarette,
hoping it would relax her anxiety. When she finished her first
cigarette, she quickly lit another one and then she moved to the
sofa, leaning her head back on the armrest and she closed her eyes.
This was the room where Tessa sat and smoked her
cigarettes before beginning her shifts at work every evening. The
bar opened late in the afternoon and she came in to work late in
the evenings, sweaty from her drive in the west Texas sun and she
allowed the floor ventilation to cool her down and tickle between
her legs. This is where she sat when her duties were completed in
the early hours of every morning. When the bar finally closed down
for the night, she was always the last one to leave, requiring a few
extra moments to herself before making the drive home to her
lonely apartment.
She would wipe down the tabletops, set each chair upside
down and off the floor, then work to sweep the cold concrete
flooring and then finally she would mop it. She closed out the
register and worked the books properly, setting aside the monies
for the bar and the money for the Holders, collecting her tips in a
cheap coin purse after all was divided between her, Carl Lee and
Peggy.
She worked to ensure no couples were beginning their
romantic escapades in the restroom and then, after all went quiet,
she’d prop open the window in the back office, lie with her legs
open enough to feel the cooling breeze of the ventilation unit and
smoke another cigarette, or sometimes a joint, dropping cigarette
ash and wiping the occasional tear from her eyes. The older she
became and the longer she worked in the bar, the harder it was for
her to accept the notion that she would never know love. This life
she had come to perfect—alone in a world full of lonely people—
was as good as it would get, and this frightened her.
Tessa was afraid to succumb to the life of drinking and
dancing and the occasional drunken sex to lonely men; too many
times she woke in the mornings to the long drawn stares of
uncertainty from the previous night’s love-affair, without so much
as a good-bye kiss on the hand or on her cheek after watching the
men dress to leave. She had watched many men make their silent
escape towards her front door and in hopeful anticipation, she
would wait, holding her breath like a child in expectance of a gift
on Christmas, hoping just one of them might look back and
possibly even return to her. She had hoped to see just one of them
look back over their shoulders, maybe to wink or offer a thank-
you, in gratitude for using her body to quiet their inner necessities
to temporarily boost their pride and ego as if she was a cheap filling
station, but she never got so much as a “goodbye” or “go to hell”.
She dated less and less as she grew older because of the
stigma cast upon her by the people, like a shadow posed over a
town by incoming storm clouds. Still, there had been others too,
those who did not want to let go of her in the mornings, struggling
with the decisions of life as they held her naked body next to
themselves, those who were possibly willing to risk all— their
homes and children and wives—just to keep that feeling she so
easily provided, a feeling of importance and dominance, but Tessa
never allowed it. She was too proud to be the burden of any good
man. And she was too proud to become the longtime cheap lover
of men like Trey Phillips. She was losing hope in the very idea of
love. She would say she was horny for love, not sex.
As the years moved on, a bit of her heart was taken with
each lover as they left her home in that fashion, crude and cold,
fulfilled and no longer wanting or desiring to drink from her well.
She knew it was truly impossible to keep any one of them, because
most—not all of them—were married. She knew how to make
men feel good; she knew how to show them respect and she knew
how to boost their egos. Tessa had discovered the unwritten
eternal secret, that if a woman only listens to a man and constantly
reminds him how important he is and how great he is and how
much his presence in her life means to her, that he in return would
serve her in the fashion women interpret as love. The willingness
to continue feeling the way they once did with the little wife at home
was often enough for most men to ruin an entire life spent building
and establishing a marriage. Tessa discovered that men will suffer
and die to feel respected and if they do, they will send cards,
flowers, and little kisses, for a chance to continue feeling like a
king. She had become a master at the art of making men feel
important. She knew a man would honor her like a gentlemen if
she shut up long enough to let him hear himself speak.
There was a time she could have built a shrine within her
home with all the mementos of infatuated lust, offered by married
men looking to re-institute the fires of desire that had long burnt
out at home. She was smart enough to know that one day, like an
unwanted salesman knocking on the door, reality would creep back
into their minds and the lust would soon fade and there would be
nothing left for her—only loss.
At first the routine of dating carelessly was exciting for her.
It was enterprising to have so many men want her, lusting for her
body and desiring the touch, taste and smell of her presence. She
had come to realize the power within her curvature, the might
within each breast and the weakening poison that lingered and
lured, sucked in and trapped the innocence of men from between
her legs. It was a power that would slowly become her emotional
demise because of her own immature carelessness.
Without her ever knowing, she was aging and losing touch
with her true self in lieu of what she was expected to offer men and
with each passing year, and the silent escape of would-be lovers in
the mornings, the power and the excitement that came with sexual
control was transformed into an emotionally degrading pain. The
once and wonderful feelings of bliss gave way to feelings of
mechanical abuse. Tessa had become an item, an object of sexual
pleasure and fulfillment—no longer an individual entitled to hurt
or cry—despite being one of the loveliest people in her town. She
went through a period of her life when she was numb and lifeless.
She learned to occupy her free time alone, tending to her plants
and working many long hours at the bar, for The Hawk’s Nest was
the one place she felt important and pretty and loved, significant
outside the bedroom to say the least. It had become a place that
gave her a sense of purpose and she learned to use her smile and
her sexy curvature to help offer better service to drunken men,
replacing the idea of sex with cold cheap beer and a smile.
In time Tessa stopped wearing her heart on her sleeve and
gave up on the idea of love, and once she learned to take control of
the flirtatiousness of men, she traded matters of sexual relations—
on her terms—for the opportunity to be held again and even if
only temporal, she learned to find safety in the arms of men, a false
blanket of security that left in the mornings. She learned in time
that no matter how pretty or fun or dedicated she was to
womanhood, she would never have any one entirely to herself. She
suffered the losses and the occasional beatings from men who were
threatened she might speak of the event and somehow disclose the
affair to their wives. She learned that the same man who has no
shame in sleeping with a woman who may have been shared by
many lovers, has too much pride to hold her hand in public. They
seemed to lack the courage to love that strongly. She learned to
enjoy the notion of being one man’s queen for the night, rather
than ever becoming the lost and forgotten love at home. She
learned to appreciate men. She knew them, felt their pains and
understood their ambitions and desires. Tessa knew it was respect
that kept a man at home and love that kept a woman happy. She
learned the actions women so commonly interpret as love, are
nothing more than gestures of honor and commitment, gestures
easily offered by men who were reminded of their importance.
Tessa knew what to say and how to fill their egos long enough to
get anything she wished. She could have anything she wanted
except for a public expression of love. She had become a
dangerous woman. She had become a lonely woman. She hated it.

“Hey,” a voice said, hovering over her. “Get up Tess, it’s

time to go.” It was Peggy and it was late, just after three o’clock in
the morning and the bar had long been cleared out.
Tessa searched for the cigarette she remembered holding in
her hand before she dozed off. It was gone and she noticed two
butts in a nearby ashtray on the desk. Her vision was distorted and
somewhere in her mind she wished the events of the evening were
nothing but a dream, but judging by the way Peggy looked at her,
she knew it was real.
“I came in here when you didn’t answer me through the
door and then when I didn’t hear you crying anymore,” Peggy said.
She blushed and said, just before making her way out the door, “I
had to pull your dress down, you left the window open and the
winds picked up with the rain and um,” she thought of the right
words. “Well, your business was showing,” Peggy finished pointing
towards Tessa’s pelvic area.
“Rain?” Tessa asked.
“Yep. Can you believe it girl? I’m surprised you didn’t
wake up with all the lightning and thunderin’ outside.”
Tessa looked down at her midsection, trying to remember
if she wore panties this evening. She eased herself up and off the
couch, adjusting her dress and fixing her hair. “What time is it?”
 “Girl it’s late and I’m going home.”
“And Carl Lee?” Tessa asked.
Peggy giggled. “Girl, he heard the thunder and as soon as
we closed, he split.”
Peggy reached into the lower desk drawer, grabbing her
personal items so she could leave. She tried to find the words to
say she was sorry, but couldn’t. She was too embarrassed for how
she acted and more so because of her desire for the man who burnt
her friend’s arm. She only said good-night. “Bye Tessa.”
Bye. Tessa watched her friend head out the front door and
to her surprise the bar was ready to be locked up for the night. Her
friend had apparently put up the chairs, swept and mopped the
floors and closed out the register. It may have been her way of
saying she was sorry and even though Tessa didn’t care for peoples’
apologies, she gratefully accepted this one. It was time to leave.
Thanks Peggy.
She gathered her purse and her tips as Peggy laid them out
neatly for her on the bar. Sympathy was working in her favor
tonight as she had a few extra dollars, more than her average
amount and she scooped the change and folded the dollars neatly
into her coin purse. She turned out the main floor lights and made
for the door.
The cooling breeze helped relax her and it felt good. Tessa
thought about how great it would feel to lie naked on her balcony
this night, smoking a cigarette and sipping on a glass of cheap wine.
Fighting back the urge to feel sorry for herself she lit yet another
cigarette and thought about Justin. She worried about how they
had departed, curious to know if somewhere in the night, captured
and muffled between the thunderous sounds of the oncoming
storms, she might be able to discern the sounds of Justin's death, if
he so chose to end his life.
 She fought the rains and the winds, finally arriving at her
house and she quickly escaped into her fairytale world on her
balcony. Now, alone and naked, Tessa began to relax and unwind,
rolling a small joint and enjoying a glass of cheap wine. Her herbal
companion Mary Jane would calm her nerves and put her into a
deep sleep for the night. And as her head became heavy and her
frown grew into a smile, she forgot about Trey Phillips and the
perfectly round scab that was now forming on her arm and she
forgot about Peggy and her pathetic apologetic gestures. She took
in the clean air and the large flashes of light that lit up the night’s
sky over Seymour and pictured herself beautiful, naked and lovely
and wanted, in another world, with the angels of the night’s sky
pushing against one another for a chance picture of her, their large
flashing bulbs lighting up the sky between cracks of thunder. The
trauma was over; it was time for her to sleep.
—8—

In Texas, thunderstorms magnify the beauty and the fear

and the power of nature. Whatever the hour into the evening or
early part of the night, the skies always whiten across the horizon,
with dark clouds lingering over the Earth, forming a bright halo
between land and sky, a ring of light that can appear to go on
forever. The air will become cool and the winds pick up, blowing
steadily in every direction but seemingly all at once. Trees, in all
their power and might, bow over in submission, bending and
cracking from the power of the Earth’s winds and the rains begin,
first as a sprinkle, then into large droplets of water, sporadically, as
if they were lifted and carried from lakes and rivers miles and miles
away. There is a smell in the air that is familiar to Texas rains, a
smell of cleanliness that is accompanied with a feeling of tranquility
that seems to envelop the land within the consumption of the
winds—a feeling of absolute peace. Some might refer to that
moment as the quiet before the storm.
The storm began to form and the clouds worked to collect
themselves; people gathered together on their front porches in
anticipation of the miracle and beauty and power of God’s glory
and wrath. There are those who enjoy the spectacle of beauty, the
sounds of the rolling thunder and the crooked streaks of lightning
that stretch and strike downwards toward the Earth and the
momentary pause between flares of light and the thunderous
rumble within the darkening sky. Others fear the storms, knowing
their destructive capabilities and they wait in a manner of respect,
like servants waiting on their king; they sit outside, on their porches
or porch swings, anticipating the horrid shake of the ground
beneath their feet, the rattling of the dishes and pots in the kitchen
pantries and the shattering echo of the windows as the thunder
rolls over their homes like a freight train tearing through the
heavens. And there are moments, just when the skies begin to
darken, where the same people who moments before were
enchanted by the magnificence of the approaching storm’s beauty,
struggle and work to take refuge and flee within the false security
of their homes. In anticipation they wait for the moments where
the fathers will cry run and the families will hide, burying
themselves within piles of mattresses and pillows, preparing to
shield themselves of any possible debris. Outside their homes, the
rains will begin to come down harder and the winds begin to push
with a sense of purpose and rage. Then the hail moves in,
splattering upon the ground and cars and rooftops, breaking into
tiny pieces.
When the storm finally settles and the rains begin to recede
and the dirt and debris have been washed away, the skies will then
whiten again. The wind will cease to blow and a very strong sense
of renewal comes forth with the breaking of the sun through the
clouds. It is a sense of cleansing—a purging of the lands—a healing
upon the Earth, reviving her from the suffocation caused by
drought and death. Calmness takes over the lands like a blanket of
humility and for a moment the people stop talking just long
enough to listen and for a moment consider the concerns and
feelings of others before their own selfish needs. Families talk as
though they were listening and as if they cared and all that remains
after the rains have moved on is a feeling of purity and
rejuvenation. The Earth slowly begins to bring forth its newness of
life again, a feeling that can not only transform the lands but the
essence of one’s soul. Fear has a way of changing people;
ultimately, that fear is death and the uncertainty of what is to come.
Today was such a day.
Justin raced down the two lane blacktop that connected the
neighboring towns of Seymour and Jacksboro and his pickup truck
skid from side to side in the rain. Thunder cracked overhead and
streaks of lightning lit up the night’s sky. He wrestled with his
thoughts and emotions and he wrestled with the steering wheel,
desperately working to regain control of his own imagination. His
heart was pounding within his chest and the palms of his hands
became clammy. He was torn between emotions, feelings of hatred
and feelings of utter sadness and overwhelming grief. The roads
were slick and the weight of the truck bed, shaken by the force of
the winds, caused the ’52 pickup to slide dangerously between
lanes. His thoughts became clouded with visions and memories of
his past. To Justin, it felt as though only a day had passed since his
accident, since losing his wife and son, and the way in which the
storm began to swallow the small Texas town reminded him of the
last night the two of them were alive.
He had carried the burden of that dreary night for over six
years and the agony of his mind weathered him somewhat older
than thirty. The rains began to pick up and it started to come down
harder, distorting his vision of the blacktop below. Heavy drops of
rain began to splatter on the front windshield, each drop splattering
and stirring another memory within his mind, and like the fog that
lulled over the dampened road and the dreary haze that formed
upon the interior of his front windshield, Justin began to confuse
the accident of his past with current reality.
The truck tore down the highway, rain and debris
splattered and sprayed from within the tread in his tires. He passed
an Allsup’s Stop-N-Go station and the John Deer dealership that
split the two towns nearly in half. It seemed to him at that moment
that only he and the storm were awake this night, that somehow,
with the approaching onslaught of winds and rain, the world
slipped away into the night, leaving him to face this wrath of God
alone. His vision became more distorted; his eyes couldn’t focus on
any one particular item as he passed them and everything he saw
seemed to stir vertically from side to side. He reached down to turn
on the radio, hoping to drown away his thoughts with a song. He
flipped between the stations nervously, too fast to discern the lyrics
as they played and like his own recollections of that night six years
ago, each song and station on the radio was unclear and confusing
to him.
His thoughts began to drift between the accident and his
recent confrontation with Tessa and the more he worked to put
her out of his mind, the more the images of her face seemed to
appear. He could see her there, standing before him with tears
trickling down the side of her cheeks, flowing endlessly from her
lovely round eyes. He could see her and he was sad, but he wasn’t
sure why. Justin began having difficulty separating the hurt from
his loss of his wife and son, and the hurt that came with seeing
Tessa cry.
What right did she have to pry into his life or his past? Her
words began to replay in his mind, but like the songs on the radio,
every recollection of what she said was garbled and distorted and it
appeared as though he couldn’t comprehend his own memories of
their recent encounter. Sweat began to form above his moustache
and lip and more slid down the side of his head, moistening his
beard, mixing with the humidity that came with the storms. His
throat became thick and tears began to trickle from his eyes. He
was lost and confused and helpless. Justin was in pain and he was
becoming more uncertain as to why he was sad.
Who the hell does she think she is? He thought. Love? What does
a whore know about love? He thought about her, still pushing the
truck’s limits down the two-lane blacktop road and he could see
the slowly forming scab upon her forearm, as he allowed his eyes
to look upon his own arm, and then he thought about Trey
Phillips. “Son of a bitch!”
Justin lit a cigarette and tossed the cigarette lighter aside.
He came upon a bend in the road and as his truck wound around
the slick blacktop he noticed two sets of eyes locked and fixed
upon his headlights, one set lower than the other. It was a mother
deer and her young and both remained motionless and still, fixated
and trapped within the beaming lights of the oncoming truck and
its broken and drunken driver.
 To Justin the moment seemed to last an eternity. In those
shiny pair of eyes he could see in their reflection a glimpse of his
former life. A life of love and a life filled with a sense of hope. A
life with a sense of purpose and everything in between the day he
met his wife and the day he lost her and their son was pure and
good and the young man who stood proudly at the center of that
life had a sense of control in his own destiny. Locked in the
reflection of those eyes were the soul and familiarity of a dead
mother and her son.

Her name was Christy Mills and she took her husband’s
last name of Bower just after her twenty-first birthday. When they
met, Justin was working a delivery route for a large auto-parts
distributor in the city of Texarkana, which bordered the Texas,
Arkansas state line. Christy was working the front reception desk
for a large used auto dealer, the great Danny Durite, pronounced
“do right.” He had the customary pathetic slogans that came with
large used auto-dealerships in small Texas towns and he would say,
screaming into the television set on Saturday and Sunday mornings,
waving his arms and allowing his large midsection to roll from side
to side, that if you came down to see him, “Danny Durite will do
you right!”
What Justin first noticed about her was her eyes; they were
large and round and they seemed to lure and draw him into her
presence. He fumbled his words as he attempted to speak with her,
forgetting he only needed a signature for the package he was
delivering and the two stood interlocked and lost into each other’s
gaze. Neither said a word. The two only smiled. The squeaky sound
of laughter, brought on by a long legged artificial blond broke their
enchanting spell, and easing out of his office, just behind Justin,
was the great Danny Durite himself. He shifted his weight from
one hip to the other, and with his mouth open, he watched that
same squeaky blonde as she was leaving, like a man whose mouth
was beginning to moisten by the smells of a fresh cooked steak on
the grill. Justin watched as the heavy man’s eyes followed the
bouncy pattern of the blonde’s firm behind. That same long legged,
ignorant though beautiful, blond would soon take the seat and
position formerly operated by Christy Mills. And because Danny
Durite was a small business, Justin would not get many more
opportunities to see the woman who would one day become his
wife.
Whenever a delivery run came through with the name
“Durite Dealership” marked in yellow highlighter, Justin hustled
and bartered his way into the route, hoping to get one more look
upon Christy and hoping further to convince himself to speak with
her. Justin achieved a promotion from his employer not long after
the two became acquainted and with such merit came the
distinction of not having to run daily routes, especially to the more
pathetic used auto dealerships. He was able to stop by one final
time before learning she had been replaced by the ignorant blonde
with the squeaky laugh. Justin was sold. He had found the woman
who would one day become his wife.

Justin slammed on the brakes and the truck skid into the
gravel on the side of the road, spraying muddy debris into the
wooded foliage, spooking the mother deer and her young. His
cigarette slipped from his fingertips and he watched the burning
embers as they fell to the rubbery floor of the truck bed and he
wrestled with the large steering wheel until the truck came to an
abrupt stop, spewing smoke and muddy debris in the air. As the
truck came to its stop there was a loud sound as metal slammed
against metal and just before his head hit the steering wheel, Justin
watched the large steel hood as it bounced up and down with the
heaviness of the truck’s sudden stop. He winced, and like a soul
lost somewhere between the fading, dying body of a man and the
slowly enveloping realm of the vast unknown eternity, Justin was
lost between his present reality and the broken images of his
accident over six-years ago.
 Justin was dazed and he fought to pry open the driver’s
side door, falling out hands first to the hard wet ground below.
Everything became still. Even the rain seemed to linger, halted, and
frozen in time. He looked back over his shoulder into the truck and
watched the fiery cigarette butt as it burnt down to the filter and he
could hear the sounds of their accident six years ago as vividly as
he could hear the rains today. Tears began to trickle down his
cheeks and Justin leaned back against his truck and he cried. He
remained still upon the wet ground for a moment and listened to
the world around him between heavy sobs. He could make out the
very distinct sounds within his mind of the ambulance sirens
growing louder and louder the closer they came. He became shaky
and scared. He could see the people running, trying to save them,
and he could make out the distinct sound of spinning tires, tires
that spun freely from a flatbed truck, which now lay on its side. He
could see shadows of people trying to help, but he could not
discern their faces. They were uncertain and afraid and scared of
the passengers in the car.
He continued to cry, with his head leaning back against the
wet metal of the truck. An owl hooted from the trees behind him
and each drop of rain upon the ground was another footstep and
sound from that night. He looked into the truck, searching for the
cigarette that fell from his hand. It had burnt out, down to the nub
of the filter, and like the life he had once known and loved, it
ceased to breathe and exist.
He became angry and enraged, propping himself up and
onto his knees. He hung his head to the ground and pulled at his
greasy wet hair, feeling the rain as they trickled down his neck and
cried aloud, waving his fists in the air.
“Is this what you wanted? Is this where I need to be? On
my knees dammit?”
He waited, but there was no response, only the faint subtle
sounds of the rain against the steel hood of his pickup truck and
the occasional stirs in the woods; all the sounds became garbled
together with the low rumble of the thunder overhead. He glanced
over his shoulder, into the foliage, hoping to find the mother deer
and her young but they were no where to be found. “Don’t be
dead,” he said. Like his wife and son, they too were gone forever.
What was he to do? Where could he go? Who would save
him? Why could he not find it in himself to take his own life, when
he had worked himself sick for years contemplating his own death?
With all his years in solitude within his cabin and those early years
spent under the bridge, not far from this very spot, he had never
felt entirely alone. There was the toy that belonged to his son and
the mirror on the windowsill and the Bible, untouched and unread
in the corner of his home, but each still remained a constant
reminder of something or someone that was real. But on this night,
realizing that his truck came to a stop on the same bend where he
lost his wife and son, the place where he and Christy shared their
final ride, side by side, Justin was alone with nothing more than the
winds and rain and the darkening power of the storm suffocating
him. The tears ceased to fall and the unsteadiness in his body went
away, the tightening in his stomach seemed to unloose itself, and in
the wind he made out the faint whisper of a familiar voice.
“It’s going to be okay son. It’s all just ripples in the water, pebbles in
the pond.”
He heard the voice in his head, carried in with the winds,
as clearly as he had in the hospital on the day he regained
consciousness. It was the soft spoken voice of Reverend Hillard
Ray Polk, one of the more admired town pastors. Justin needed
answers. Justin had kept himself in the dark, knowing nothing
more of that night other than the event of the crash and his total
regain of consciousness three days later. He had told the town
pastor to fuck off and threw his gift of the Holy Bible at his back
as he made his way towards the hospital room door. He never
apologized and never let the man finish the tale of what had
occurred over the course of those three days he remained
unconscious in the hospital. Tonight, he wanted answers. Tonight,
Justin had a decision to make, one which could cost him his life.
He was going to visit that man of God and bring his six year
sentence of emotional torment to an end. Tonight, Justin would
settle his issues with God or make his peace with certain death.
The battle between Death and Life was coming to a close and soon
one entity would take claim over the other.
—9—

Reverend Hillard Ray Polk pinched the bridge of his nose

with his thumb and forefinger, and with his free hand set his
glasses down beside his Holy Bible and a small composition
booklet. It was neatly folded and divided down the center of its
pages with a pen. He preferred the old prose of the King James
Version the most. Over the years many men and women who
worked in service to the Lord opted for the more easily understood
versions, but not Reverend Polk. He was committed to the beauty
of the antiquated text and when he cited verse on Sunday
mornings, it was as poetic as if the very spirit of God were
speaking through him.
The old man leaned back in a yawn and rubbed his eyes
briskly, letting out a slight grumble from weathered pain and
fatigue. He stretched out his tired old legs and twisted his ankles
until the bones and cartilage popped, easing some of the pain and
tension in his feet. He suffered from Type-II diabetes which
restricted proper blood flow to his feet and after prolonged periods
of standing—most of which was done delivering sermons and
preaching the Lord’s gospel—his feet would hurt something awful.
They would swell and he had to soak them in an old tin basin
beside his bed every night, just before saying his nightly prayers.
He staggered over towards his large picture window,
opening the drapes to allow himself full sight of the storm that
settled above his world. “That’s an ugly storm Lord,” he said to the
solidarity of his home. “Yeah that’s an ugly storm approaching.”
 While most people in this small chapter of the world were
out celebrating life on Saturday nights, “sinning and fornicating at
The Hawk’s Nest,” as Reverend Polk might have put it, he was
busy, consumed with a diligent routine of prayer, study and
meditation. His thoughts were constantly bent upon the poetic
chastisement and correction of the Lord. He rarely left the confines
of his garage apartment home where he lived in back of his church.
Both had become his safe haven over the years. He was secure
within the walls of his church from the wickedness and cruelty of
the world. He shopped for his living essentials at the same I.F.A.
Foodstore as Justin and the rest of Seymour and only occasionally
ventured away from his refuge within the church for afternoon
picnics or to shop for books at a small bookstore called Wizards.
He didn’t care for the name because he believed any sort of
wizardry was an act of defilement towards the Lord but his options
to shop for books were limited in Seymour. One entire wall in his
bedroom area was covered from floor to ceiling with books and
anthologies and biblical histories along with countless composition
books with years of knowledge and experiences neatly written
within their bindings. The text within those booklets was as sacred
to him as the love for a man’s wife and as private as the secrets
whispered between soul mates who shared an undefiled bed.
He wrote often and every spare moment he could find, he
read. Reverend Polk believed if he wasted one moment of life that
God had bestowed upon him, he would be punished for all eternity
for wasting his talents and gifts and above all else—an opportunity
at serving within the ministry. To Reverend Polk, life was a
precious gift of grace, not to be taken lightly and that concept and
mentality kept him awake every night for over thirty-years and it
woke him just before the break of dawn every morning. Seldom
did he get a good night’s sleep; the older he became the more he
opted for afternoon naps, which supplemented his body’s need for
rest, though they did little to diminish the turmoil and uneasiness in
his mind—a perturbed feeling of inadequacy that came with never
knowing whether or not he was living up to his full potential.
Unlike secular jobs, he couldn’t walk into his boss’s office to
determine his performance but rather he would go through a series
of life’s lessons, both good and bad, to help mold him into the man
of God he was meant to become. For him and the few select
chosen men and women who received the calling for service to the
Lord, that determination would come on what they referred to as
the Day of Judgment and there were no second chances to correct
the mistakes as they were made. Unlike the men and women who
worked in the secular world, Polk had only to rely on his faith and
his diligence to study the Good Book to show he was worthy and
approved.
Still, there was another demon that occupied Reverend
Polk’s thoughts and weathered him older than his age. It was not a
figment of his imagination nor was it a clouded vision or apparition
that could easily be cast down by holy spells and rituals. For
Reverend Polk it was something more real and non-elusive. It was
a presence he felt lurking only within the shadows of his mind—a
whisper in the night while he tried to sleep. This one demon in
particular lived not but a few miles up the road. Polk and his
demon possessor never came face-to-face, though he carried with
him the burdens and responsibility of being accountable for his life.
For all his holy triumphs and his religious milestones earned with
each measure of his faith, no amount of prayer helped ease the
tension that came with knowing that Justin Olerude Bower was still
alive, unsaved and lost, and the bitterness and resentment that
epitomized Justin’s very existence became a slow metaphorical
symbol in Polk’s ability—or lack thereof—to inspire and lead the
lost into salvation.
This year the Reverend would turn sixty-years old and was
heavy around the waistline and stout upon the shoulders. He stood
slightly above six-feet tall and he had a full head of hair that over
the years had slowly faded to gray. He was clean cut and had large
rough hands, hands that had seen their share of labor and hands
that had spent many lonely nights interlocked in prayer and deep
supplication to some form of higher power.
 In his youth he performed mostly manual labor. It was the
only kind of work available for an uneducated black man in Texas.
Further west he picked cotton, off the old Highway-80 which split
north towards Lubbock off Interstate-20. He lived in bunk houses
not much different than the small garage apartment he called his
home today and he slowly migrated east to work the rail yards and
flour mills outside a city called Saginaw.
Although more patient and wiser today than in his youth,
Reverend Polk battled the internal fear of inadequacy and often
spent many hours alone, pondering and trying to determine
whether his day to shine within the graces of the Lord would ever
come, a day that would allow his diligence and service to shine
above the rest of those less committed men and women who
worked within the ministry. He still fought man’s natural urgency
to doubt. He knew it to be a natural emotion for mankind; but
alone at night and lying still within his bed, he often second-
guessed his purpose in life. Had he ever truly made a difference?
Had he ever touched a soul? Was he compassionate and sincere
enough to lead a lost sheep back into the arms and heart of the
Good Shepherd or was he nothing more than a pawn on a greater
table, working and slaving until the game called Life was over and
his adversaries had called check-mate?
He woke early every Saturday morning and ate a routine
breakfast consisting of a glass of orange juice, sausage and bacon
strips, a large bowl of buttery grits, three eggs—sunny side up—
and he washed everything down with a hot cup of coffee with no
cream and no sugar. He preferred his coffee stout. He dressed for
the occasion, wearing black dress slacks and depending upon the
season a long or short-sleeved white button up shirt. His wardrobe
was as plain and predictable as his life had become over the years.
Because of the pain and swelling in his feet, he wore a less stylish
but very comfortable pair of orthopedic shoes. They were much
lighter in weight and more comfortable than the steel-toed work
boots he lugged around the rail yards in his youth, but they fit their
purpose and as long as he could finish his sermon standing on his
feet, he was content with his disposition in appearance.
Reverend Polk ate his breakfast in the one bedroom loft
apartment that sat above the church-house garage. It had one large
room, with a bed, a living area and a kitchenette properly fitted
with an old table for eating his breakfast. He had a small television
which he seldom used because Polk did not have time for what he
called the “nonsense on T.V.” The living area overlooked the back
of his church and a large portion of the parking area out front.
Some of the members of his congregation helped build the garage
home for him some ten years ago and it was equipped with a small
wooden deck that attached to a sturdy set of stairs that made their
way down to the grass below.
Polk swallowed down the eggs and bacon and after all the
food was gone, he wiped the plate clean of any egg yolks with his
remaining sausage links. After breakfast, he enjoyed sitting on the
patio, drinking his coffee and listening to the sounds of life around
him. He had a small bird feeder which he kept stocked with plenty
of seed and different forms of ivy growing from glass jars,
aluminum tin basins and plastic or ceramic pots. Nothing matched
and everything seemed as if it were given to him at different times
from various sorts of people over the course of many years.
He stood in the same spot earlier that morning, as though
his instincts predicted the approaching storm and he woke with a
worried sense of urgency, as if somehow his spirit was aware that
something was amiss and out of place. When he woke, he changed
and served himself some breakfast. He sipped his coffee, belching
the eggs and grits, and stared out the large picture window in his
living area and hummed along to some gospel music and for a
moment was at relative peace with himself and his purpose in life.
He enjoyed overlooking his church lawn from his large
picture window, a yard he worked hard to keep neat and cut and
more importantly—green. That was no easy task to accomplish in
west Texas. Outside his church and just below his living room
window, his church caretaker, a man everyone around the
congregation called Mr. Pappy, was busy pushing a mower and
intermittently pausing in the hot Texas heat to wipe the sweat from
his brow with a scarf he wore around his heavy neck. Mr. Pappy
also resided at the church, but unlike the more elaborate garage
apartment owned by Reverend Polk, his living quarters were
nothing more than a spare room connected directly to the back of
the church-house. It was a room originally designed by Polk to
help house those members of the congregation in need of
assistance or a temporary place to stay and live. Somewhere around
five years ago, Pappy showed up at his church-house doorsteps and
although his faith in the Lord’s work was no where near that of
Polk’s, his commitment to seeing a church-house tidy and a clean-
cut yard however was.
As negotiations and the story is told, before Reverend Polk
realized what he was getting himself into, not only did he acquire a
full time porter, lawn, and maintenance man but also a permanent
resident of the church. Pappy couldn’t afford the monthly lease on
his recently rented apartment in town, and just weeks after signing
his lease and meeting Reverend Polk, he had talked his way into a
cozy living space in the back of the church well before the first
month’s rent was due. He had lived there since their abrupt
meeting and his actions over the years proved he had no intentions
of leaving, though if asked, he might be apt to say that he was close
to getting “back on his feet.” Reverend Polk knew there was no
truth to that statement, but he always acted as though it were.
Pappy was busy pushing the mower that morning and
hardly a blade of grass was blown around beneath his feet. Because
of the mutual concern for the overall appearance of the turf, both
men rotated shifts and the grass was cut every three to four days
though Pappy did the best he could to deter his boss from ever
having to actually perform the more physical work around the
church. He didn’t believe it was fitting for a man who was
spiritually responsible for so many people to work outside like he
was one of the help. Pappy believed he had enough nonsense to
deal with as it was.
 As he wiped the sweat from his round face he waved up
towards the garage apartment, and under his breath said good
morning to his pastor and boss. After receiving a waving gesture of
hello by Reverend Polk’s coffee cup and the customary nod of
acknowledgment with his head, Pappy pressed on, continuing his
duties in his fashion of diligence and order.
Underground sprinklers watered the yard for twenty
minutes a day, five times a week and all around the perimeter were
splendid arrays of colorful flowers and plants. Still sipping his
coffee, Reverend Polk made his way out from inside his home, to
his patio, then finally down to the grass below to take in the beauty
of Mr. Pappy’s workmanship.
“Good mornin’ Mr. Pappy!” Reverend Polk sipped his
coffee. “Another glorious day,” he finished, adjusting his eyes to
the bright burning sun. You’re always busy, aren’t you?
Assured his boss was only saying hello again, Pappy
continued to work, shouting a return gesture of good-morning as
he worked the mower around a small tree and he nodded his head
in a manner of saying yes. Yes to anything his boss might ask of
him.
By afternoons, Reverend Polk preferred to be tucked away
within the cool confines of the church-house. He worked to
prepare his Sunday sermons every night until he felt it was perfect
and on Saturdays he rehearsed his poetic script, oftentimes forcing
Mr. Pappy to sit in the pews to serve as an active participant. Pappy
never attended the church services despite living on the property
and he always appeared uncomfortable, unsure of how he was
supposed to act. He only sat still with a broom in one hand and
watched as his boss became an actor on a stage play, moving
gracefully to and fro, letting the Lord Almighty control the strings.
Uncomfortable or not, he always enjoyed watching the way in
which his boss moved in animated unison with the shouting of the
Lord’s gospel.
 Today Reverend Polk’s drink was tea. During the
procession of his sermons he took many breaks and in the course
of one practice session he would finish an entire pitcher of iced tea
or lemonade. The smell in the air led both men to believe that the
rains would be settling over the town soon, so Reverend Polk
allowed Pappy to miss this morning’s practice sermon, knowing
there was plenty of work to be completed around the church
before the rain. But as the day progressed, Polk wasn’t sure he
made the right choice. Today might have been a day his humble
servant could have used a religious lecture the most.
Outside he could hear the bang and clanking of work
coming from the garage and every so often in between a drag and
drop of something large and heavy, he could discern slight
profanities slipping from Pappy’s mouth. The words were
immediately followed by loud apologies aimed more towards Polk
than to God. Pappy would say, “What do you expect me to do?
Hell, I live in a church and if God ain’t changed my mouth by now,
s’pose he ain’t never gonna change it.”
Polk shrugged it off, accepting long ago that some people
will never change, at least not by fuss or force. He sipped the cold
iced tea and tugged at his collar allowing some of the cooler air
beneath his shirt. He looked around his pulpit at the empty rows,
imagining the faces of each member of the church congregation,
knowing how they gathered in their customary seats as if they were
children each assigned to a specific desk in school. Then he began
again, having a vivid mental picture of the vast rows of crowded
pews of his small west Texas church and working as though the
church was actually full—to a capacity it may have never seen and a
depth it may never know—he continued with his practice sermon.
By late afternoon a large array of storm clouds had moved
in and worked to shield the sun from sight, providing some
temporary relief from the heat. Reverend Polk and Mr. Pappy ate
sandwiches under a tree at the base of the garage and discussed
different philosophies on life. Pappy went on sharing tales of his
younger life and all the places he had been and people he had met
and how unorganized the garage was. Polk ignored his rambling
and chewed on his fried bologna sandwich, sipping his iced tea,
allowing his mind to drift. He imagined a less solitary time and he
remembered better company.
Her name was Aretha May and she was his wife of over
twenty years and she tagged along faithfully everywhere her
husband could find work. In all their happy years of marriage she
was unable to bear him a child and she carried that burden of
inadequacy until her death. A year after she passed, the church
members helped to move Reverend Polk out of their house and
into the newly built garage apartment out back. The way in which
he bore the sadness of her loss had many of the people feeling he
would only sink away into his own death had he been left alone in
their home with only reminders of his loss.
“You understand what I’m trying to say Reverend?” Pappy
asked.
Polk was busy with his imagination, holding a glassed
mason jar to his mouth. He shook a nod in agreement, but he had
not heard a word of nearly the entire conversation. “Looks like rain
coming in,” Polk said in an attempt to mask his lack of attention.
Pappy scratched his bald head and said, “Anything’s better
than this here heat.”
Polk returned a smile and said, “Yes it is.”
Dark clouds hovered above the church and the two men
scrambled to gather food, drinks, their table and two folding chairs.
They set the table and chairs inside the garage and Reverend Polk
carried a tray with the food and drinks up to his garage apartment.
Reverend Polk asked his friend and loyal subject to join him, but
he declined.
Pappy retired into his one bedroom suite where he spent
the remainder of the evening watching recorded copies of various
boxing matches. Mr. Pappy did some boxing in his youth and
although he loved the sport, he didn’t feel it was important enough
to burden the church funds with an additional monthly bill for
cable television, so he asked one of the church members to record
the fights as they watched them and he would replay them over
and over again on an old VCR which he called the movie machine.
Upstairs in his garage apartment Mr. Polk changed into
more comfortable clothes—old pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and
some slippers with the artificial sheep’s wool inside to help pad the
tired soles of his feet. He prepped his kitchen table for some late
night studying and waited for the oncoming storm to approach.
Outside, the thunder began to crash off in the distance and
sporadic streaks of lightning lit up the far off skies and above them
the clouds collected.

Reverend Hillard Ray Polk opened the Good Book and

flipped the pages until he reached his last place of study. He held a
pen firmly in his hand and placed it between two pages in his small
composition booklet. Propping his head up with one hand, four
fingers massaged his forehead in a circular motion and his thumb
rested neatly under his check bone and with each passing of
scripture the storm crept in closer. The rains and thunderstorms
never scared him much, but tonight, for whatever reason, he felt a
nervous anxiety which made him uncomfortable. He was uneasy
and could not find a means to relax. Looking down he realized one
leg was hopping up and down in a nervous pace and he got up to
stretch his legs and look outside at the weather and incoming rain.
He stood there, looking over his private and secluded world, and
watched as the rains began to fall harder and harder.
“Yes Lord, that is an ugly storm,” he said again, watching
as the sky lit up in a bright white silhouette before fading away into
darkness. He became quiet and still and he remembered the last
time a storm brought on such an eerie feeling. For Polk the
memory of that night was as vivid and clear as his day spent talking
to Mr. Pappy over iced tea and fried bologna sandwiches. It was
the night he first met Justin Olerude Bower.
For six years he carried the burden of having to be the one
person responsible for telling Justin of how his wife and son died,
just days following the accident. He had no ties to the young man
or his family but being a spiritual leader and having developed a
reputation as a man the people could count on during times of
emotional crisis, it went without saying that the task would fall
unto him. And for six years Reverend Polk tried to determine just
how he might explain to Justin what he witnessed as he stood, side
by side, with both his wife Christy and then his son, before each of
them went on to be with the Lord.
Polk turned away from his window, switching off most of
the lights within his home, always sure to leave the one main light
within his living area on, because he felt it was right to allow some
lighting, even while a person slept. He kicked off his shoes, set
himself gently beside the edge of his bed, folded his weathered
hands and bowing his head in humble submission, he said his
prayers.
—10—

Justin found another cigarette stuffed between the seats in

his truck and did his best to round out the ends, losing some of the
stale tobacco as he worked to mold the cigarette for use. He took a
deep breath and let out a long sigh. He commenced to inhaling
stale smoke again, lifting his head, allowed the rains to wash over
him, upon his head and down his neck, all the while shielding his
cigarette in the palm of his hand.
He found his seat behind the large circular steering wheel
and he drove away slowly, gazing around cautiously to ensure the
mother deer and her young were far from the danger of his
drunken rage. “I’m sorry,” he said to no one. He worried that the
two deer might be lodged somehow beneath his truck, so he pulled
away from the side of the highway slowly, allowing the wheels to
sink their tread within the mud and while the truck eased back onto
the highway, he listened, hoping he would not hear the crunching
sound of death below his tires as he drove away.
He headed back into town, turning off the highway,
making his ways towards The People’s Assembly of God, ministered
and housed by one Reverend Hillard Ray Polk. As confused and
lost as he may have felt, the weather and recent stop on the side of
the road helped to ease his tension just enough to allow him to
regain some sense of control over his emotions, if only for the
moment. There would be no more swerving and sliding between
driving lanes, only a slow and steady course beneath the winds and
rain, guided by the lightning as it pierced the clouds and broke
downwards towards the Earth. This would be the time to collect
his thoughts, unsure as to what might happen when he arrived at
the church.
I need you Christy, he thought to himself. “Save me baby,” he
said. It had been many years since he visited a religious
establishment of any sort and he often contemplated this very
moment. Rotting away in his emotional prison cell within the
cabin, Justin conjured up various childlike scenes within his mind
depicting a battle between him and God. He envisioned a battle,
fought over a large pulpit and down into rows of by-standing
angels, some of which were good and many of which were evil, like
diligent sentinels waiting to carry away the defeated foe into the
gates of hell. He knew that his showdown with God would be
nothing like the crazed images he conjured in his mind, but Justin
understood the relevance nonetheless. He convinced himself that if
anyone deserved answers in the world it was him, at least for the
benefit of his wife and son, who were no longer here to plead their
case to a higher calling.
When Justin arrived at The People’s Assembly of God, the
parking lot was bare and it shocked him, as if he somehow thought
the world would have gathered to witness this spectacle of good
versus evil. The parking lot was dark and except for an occasional
streak of lightning that flashed across the sky, the entire area was
seemingly lifeless and the only thing that appeared to breathe was
the storm above. Looking towards the back of the church Justin
noticed the subtle lighting within the garage apartment home.
“That’s gotta be where you live,” he said under his breath.
Returning his attention back towards the church he noticed
it was completely dark. That image scared him slightly, feeling as
though a church should somehow be continuously lit, like a beacon
guiding the way for the lost souls of the world. He considered his
next moves for a moment before attempting to go inside and
reached for a small flask from within the glove-box to his truck. He
sipped on the cheap whiskey and for the first time in many
months, it seemed to have lost its flavor. He massaged his forehead
with both hands, circling round and round and replayed the events
of the entire night in his head—the faint desire to live coupled with
a desire to die, the abrupt stop near the site of the crash and his
subtle urgency to be near Tessa Jameson.
He stared blankly into nothing ahead of him and in his
mind could make out the faint dancing silhouette of Ms. Tessa
Jameson. No matter what he thought of her or how hard he tried
to convince himself she was dirty and not worthy of love, he
couldn’t help but wonder in amazement at her beauty. He could
see her dancing around the bar, shaking down the older patrons for
tips and mystifying the women who only wished they had such a
lovely presence, even if her amazement was only known to
drunken men and cheating husbands. He could hear her calling for
him. Sweetie replayed and echoed through his head and for the
moment, it made him smile. She is beautiful, he thought to himself.
He shook it off, waving at the space in front of his face as
if he could somehow fan away his thoughts like a cloud of cigarette
smoke. Now was not the time to allow his imagination to run riot
with fantasies about a woman he could never know and love.
Tonight was the night to settle his terms with God or make his
peace with what remaining life he had left to live. I guess this is it.
“You and me God,” he said before exiting the truck. “It’s time to
answer.”
He stumbled out the truck and took one final swig of the
cheap whiskey, emptying the entire contents of the flask before
tossing the dull metallic container into the front seat. He thought
he would start with the front door, banging on it profusely, hoping
to stir the presence of God or at least hoping to wake the Reverend
from his living quarters. He staggered towards the small set of
stairs, one foot falling forward and over the other before pausing
to catch his balance. The cooling breeze helped to intensify his
drunkenness. He kicked at the old wooden door, intermittently
chipping paint from its bottom edges and all the while, he was
shouting.
“Get your ass out here and talk to me!” he said, between
knocks and kicks on the door. “I know you hear me!” You always
hear me. “But you aren’t gonna ignore me anymore! I want answers
dammit!”
The rain had begun to die down but the thunder continued
to rumble and because of this Reverend Polk could not make out
Justin’s insistency on the doorstop to his church. Polk was tucked
away, upstairs in his garage apartment, wrestling with the idea of
sleep and counting the flashes of light that lit the wall near his bed.
He wasn’t afraid of the storms; instead he was nervous and anxious
for reasons he could not comprehend. He tried praying, hoping the
gesture would ease his worried mind, but it did not. What is it you
want from me tonight Lord?
He got up from bed, poured himself a glass of iced tea, and
then laughed, realizing that the caffeine would do him no favors in
trying to get some rest tonight. He held the glass to his face and
watched as the cubes of ice danced in a circular pattern and for a
moment thought he heard a voice outside. He stood completely
still and after a brief pause he shook it off. It’s nothing but the wind.
Over the years there had been some attempts at robbing
his church, though he could never imagine why; the church did not
house a large sum of funds and what monies he was responsible
for, he kept in the bank under tight lock and key, only to be used
when necessary, whether it was to help those less fortunate work
through hard times or to cover the costs of maintaining the church
and his menial living expenses.
But theft or burglary worried him little, because the
Reverend had Mr. Pappy to watch over him. Of Pappy’s many
duties around the church, security guard was one of his finer
abilities. He was a light sleeper and often took walks outside in the
middle of the night to clear his head. He was a private man and
kept his concerns to himself and wouldn’t so much as share them
with his boss. If asked, he might say he didn’t feel it was proper to
burden his pastor with such minute problems as his own.
And on this particular night, he too was not sleeping very
well. Mr. Pappy heard the knocking and shouting at the church
door and quickly dressed into some overalls, a t-shirt, and a muddy
pair of work boots, leaving his socks behind. He slipped the boots
on outside, hopping and alternating feet, and entered the church
from a door out back. Entering the main corridor from behind
Polk’s pulpit, he turned on the lights, one set at a time, as not to
completely alert the would-be intruder, but just enough to clear his
own vision and once his eyes regained focus, he worked to make
his way towards the front entrance. He stopped to pick up a large
push broom he had set along the corridor.
“Who in the hell could this be?” Mr. Pappy said, fitting
himself with the broom like a soldier might before taking his post
on guard-duty. “Well whoever it is, they ain’t gonna be happy here
in a bit.”
Outside, Justin was steadily kicking the base of the door,
causing a small mound of paint chips to collect on the ground. He
was busy, demanding entrance and the presence of at least, God’s
representative—Reverend Polk. What he got instead was an older,
shorter, stout bald-headed black man, armed with a large push
broom and seemingly ready for battle.
“Hey! Who the hell’s making all that darn racket out here?”
Pappy asked, swinging the door open in an attempt to startle the
would-be intruder.
Justin fell back in his balance and landed one step lower
than the entranceway. Still feeling the affects of the alcohol and
highly upset, he returned a quizzical look and upon regaining his
focus, he headed back towards the door.
“Get the hell outta my way old man,” Justin said. “Who
the hell are you anyhow? I got business with your God tonight.”
Pappy firmly stood his ground and propped the push
broom horizontally, blocking the entire entrance to the church-
house doorway. His ass ain’t gettin’ in this church, Pappy thought.
Justin returned a look of amazement. “You got some balls
old timer, but if you plan on keeping them, you better move.
Now!”
Pappy shoved the broom handle forward, nearly catching
Justin in the chest. “That’s far enough! Don’t you know better than
to come into a holy place, drunk as you is?”
Justin laughed at the gesture, knowing that just moments
ago the old man was asking who the hell was at the door. He then
grabbed the broom handle, twisting it vertically and then back to
the horizontal position, trying to shake it loose from the old man’s
grip.
“I told you,” Justin reiterated. “My business is between me
and God, and you’re in the damn way.”
Pappy began to back track in his steps, feeling the
overpowering and enraged strength of the oncoming perpetrator.
To him Justin carried the look of a mad man and the sadness of a
drunk seemingly at the same time. He wasn’t sure how serious
Justin was in his antics and he thought about letting him come
inside, just to ease the tension of the moment. But somewhere
locked in the struggle, Pappy changed his mind.
“You’re drunk,” Pappy said. “If you got issues with the
Lord, you best go home and sleep it off and come back tomorrow
mornin’ like the rest of decent folk who have problems.” Damn fool,
Pappy thought. “Besides that, you gonna wake the Reverend and
he needs his sleep. Dealing with heathens like you can make a man
tired.”
Still wrestling his way into the door, Justin explained to Mr.
Pappy that Polk’s presence was exactly what he wanted. If he
couldn’t get direct answers from God, then a servant of the Lord
would surely suffice his grave desires.
—11—

Reverend Polk tried to force himself to sleep, after saying

his prayers and getting up to relieve himself twice and two more
times to get a glass of iced tea. He tossed and turned in his bed
until finally he couldn’t take the discomfort in his gut any longer.
He tossed the covers off his body, rolled over and off the side of
the bed, dragging his swollen feet behind him and then easing each
foot into a pair of slippers where he then made his way towards the
living area, grabbing a bath robe and wrapping it firmly around his
tired body. He moved towards the large picture window in the
living area.
“Ah, my feet are killin’ me Lord,” he said. He starred
blankly at the light-stricken night and admired the beauty in the
streaks of lightning as they flashed from behind the heavy storm
clouds. He followed the entire perimeter of his back yard and then,
upon close observation, he realized Pappy’s door to his one room
palace was slightly ajar and the lights were off. “That’s odd.” He
became somewhat worried and distraught. He knew Pappy liked to
take midnight strolls around the church grounds at night, but on
this night, considering the elements of the thunderstorm, he knew
something was amiss for him to be out and away without so much
as a warning to Polk. He walked to the opposite side of his living
room, remembering to grab his glasses from atop his Holy Bible
and then he fitted himself behind a small window above his kitchen
sink where he discovered a familiar pickup truck in the parking lot.
That’s Justin’s truck, he thought. “What in God’s creation?”
 Tying the bathrobe around his enlarged girth, Polk headed
towards the door, with uncertainty and fear in his heart. Oh Lord
don’t let there be trouble. He made his way out the door, down the
winding wooden stairs of his deck, across the wet lawn until he
reached the back entrance to the church. He found the door
already propped open and his heart sank in his chest. “Jesus.”

“Get the hell outta my way!” Justin yelled, still wrestling

with Mr. Pappy and his broom.
“Watch your language boy, I already done told you, this is a
house of God, you heathen!” Pappy said.
The two men were interlocked in an emotional and
physical struggle. One man fought with all his strength to ward off
the drunken threat to his sacred home and respect for his friend
and pastor; the other fought through an emotional struggle to
overcome his urgency with death and his fear of what he might
learn if he pushed hard enough to get through the door.
In the midst of the struggle, the two men knocked over a
glassed picture frame with the end of the broom handle; it hung on
a wall near the front entrance in a manner as though it were once
hung with pride, praised and admired, and then altogether
forgotten behind dust. And lying there on the ground, twisted and
wrapped within the broken shards of glass was an engraved piece
of cloth with the phrase, “Expect a Miracle!” neatly sewn in a
beautifully woven pattern.
Upon hearing and seeing the glassed picture frame shatter
and breaking upon the hardwood floor, both men began to realize
the silliness in their struggle, and the tension in the broom handle
was lessened slightly, though neither man let go completely.
“Now look at what you done fool,” Pappy said with
disgusted uncertainty. He appeared concerned for the damage but
he showed no sentiment for the value of the item that was now
scattered upon the floor. What in the hell is that thing?
 Reverend Polk stepped over boxes as he made his way
through the long thin hallway, passing his office in stealth-like
manner, trying to discern the apparent argument and struggle that
was taking place within the main foyer of the church. God save us.
“Pappy?” he said, scared of what he might find should he barge
into the main hall of the church a moment too late.
Justin and Mr. Pappy were still arguing over who was
responsible for the broken shards of glass that were now spread
across the threshold to the main entrance of the church.
“You son of a bitch, I want you out of my way right now,”
Justin said, surprised at the strength of the old man. He pushed and
shoved, slowly gaining ground and control of the confrontation
and the broom handle.
Instinctively, knowing he was on the verge of being
completely overpowered by the much younger and more aggressive
intruder, Pappy stepped back onto his right foot and positioned
himself so he could deliver a striking blow. Without thinking twice,
Pappy, like an old veteran pug, set his left foot just outside Justin’s
left foot, and shifting his weight from his back leg to his left foot,
he fired a straight-right punch that caught Justin just under his bad
eye.
“What the hell?” Justin yelled in total shock.
“I told yer ass to quit cussin’ in here,” Pappy said in a
moment in which he appeared to regain a normal breathing pattern
and control of the situation.
The straight-right punch caught Justin by complete
surprise. Though Justin’s arrival was brute and forceful, he had no
intentions of hurting anyone, not Mr. Pappy or Reverend Polk for
that matter, but instead he was worried more by fear of his own
capabilities in such a drunken rage. He carried a greater fear of
harming himself than he did the intentions of hurting others.
 Justin was covering his eye with both hands. I can’t believe
the son of a bitch actually hit me.
For an old man, Pappy landed a punch as fundamentally
sound as any seasoned prize fighter. No one knows for sure
whether or not Pappy had fought as a younger man, though the
manner in which he passionately referenced the sport, and the way
he hit Justin, it might be safe to say he had spent some time in the
ring, at least once in his lifetime.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Justin asked.
He had already released the broom handle and was busy working to
soothe the pain in his eye and cheek-bone and he smothered one
entire side of his face with his hands and then with his one good
eye, he turned to locate Mr. Pappy.
Pappy stood erect and proud and he bore a look of
disbelief and amazement and after a moment of admiration at his
handy work, he felt a sharp pain creeping up his fingertips to the
top of his hand and in an instance, both he and Justin were
standing in pain with only the broom between them on the floor.
The lights to the main hall came on and there was a shout.
“That’s enough!” Cast back behind his pulpit with his hands resting
on his hips like a parent about to scold his children, was the large
silhouette of Reverend Polk. “I want you both to break it up in
here right now!”
Still covering his face with his hands, Justin said, “Mister
Polk, I don’t know who this man is, but he sure the hell needs to
learn some manners.”
“That’s Reverend Polk not Mister,” Pappy said, correcting
him almost immediately.
“I came up here to speak to you tonight and this old fart
attacked me.”
“Now, don’t you go lying in here boy,” Pappy said,
massaging his swollen hand. Old fart? Who the hell does this fool think
he’s talkin’to? “Now who you calling old anything?” Pappy asked.
“I said that’s enough, the both of you!” Polk said. “Now I
want you both to shut up. And somebody better start explaining
what in God’s creation is goin’ on in here.”
Justin stared at Pappy and Mr. Pappy stared back at Justin,
both obviously confused about who, if anyone was to speak first.
The silence lasted but a moment and simultaneously both men
began to plead their case to Reverend Polk. Justin argued that his
visit was interrupted by an attack from Pappy and his broom, and
Pappy’s rebuttal referenced an attempted break in by what he
referred to as a drunken intruder. Each man in turn, argued his
case, attempting to drown out the voice of the other until finally
Polk had had enough and he silenced them again.
“I said that’s enough!”
Polk came forward from the pulpit, stomping his tired feet
upon the hardwood floor, leaving wet imprints behind him on the
ground and as he approached, he properly set his spectacles upon
the bridge of his nose in the manner he would every Sunday
morning before addressing his congregation. He was waving both
arms in the air in continuance of his act in silencing the two men.
Reverend Polk addressed them each in turn, essentially telling them
to shut up because they were causing him to get a headache. He
stood in disbelief and stared at both men, looking down upon them
as a father might just before sending his two children to separate
rooms for the night. Just look at them, he thought. “I can’t believe
this.”
“Boss,” Pappy started, trying to show the Reverend his
swollen hand.
“Now Pappy, I want you to get off into bed now.
Understand me?”
“But boss,” Pappy said.
“No. I said get. It’s time to go. Let me deal with this young
man here.” Reverend Polk turned his attention towards Justin.
“Besides that, it looks like you gonna need to soak that hand.” He
was addressing Pappy but focusing his attention on Justin’s eye.
“My hand’s fine boss, really.”
“Well you don’t look fine to me,” Polk said still staring at
Justin’s face. “You go on now. I said I can handle the situation
from here.”
“You ain’t even lookin’ at my poor hand.” Pappy held his
hand out towards his boss in the same manner a child might show
his mother a small cut just before asking for a bandage. “It might
even be broken.”
“Yeah go,” Justin said, directing Pappy towards the door
with a nod of his head.
“Hey. And that’s enough outta you too Justin.” Polk
turned and positioned his body in front of Mr. Pappy. “It ain’t
broken. You had worse wounds from workin’ in the yard.” He
nodded his head in disgust and waved Pappy off to his quarters. He
didn’t face him long enough to see if he actually left. He turned
again towards Justin and waved him over, asking him to
accompany him towards the front by the pulpit.
Pappy looked to Justin, upset and still wary of the young
man’s intentions for such a late night visit. “You know he’s been
drinkin’ boss.”
“Pappy, you still here?” Reverend Polk asked without
turning to address him.
“You see what he done to your picture up front?”
“Why the hell don’t you shut up?” Justin said.
“Picture? What picture?” Polk asked. He turned and faced
the back wall to the church and adjusting his glasses on his face he
started high then worked his sights down lower until he found the
broken pieces of glass upon the floor. Oh baby, what in God’s creation
have they done?
 “I told you he was trouble,” Pappy said. He caught the
hateful glares from Justin’s eyes and said nothing further, hoping
the destruction of such a precious gift might be enough to force his
boss’s hand.
Reverend Polk walked passed Mr. Pappy and Justin and
after realizing what it was the two men had destroyed, he paused
and stared at the ground, sliding broken pieces of glass from the
embroidered cloth with one foot.
Mr. Pappy followed behind him and he quickly worked to
remove the broom from the ground, allowing more working space
for his boss. Seeing Reverend Polk lower himself to the ground,
obviously hurt by what he had found, made Mr. Pappy sad and
angry at the same time. He turned to inspect Justin again and this
time he let the young man see the rage of his emotions, altogether
forgetting the pain in his hand. It was Reverend Polk’s soft voice
that broke the emotional struggle between the two men.
“My wife made this for me,” Polk said.
Damn, Justin thought. Remorse was a new emotion for
Justin and he was uncomfortable with himself and he was unsure
of what to say. “You’re wife Mr. Polk? I’m sorry. I didn’t know you
were married.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“She made this for me a long time ago,” Reverend Polk
said, draping the fancy cloth over one hand and cupping it as if it
were a baby. He took in a breath and let out a heavy sigh. “Funny
thing is, I forgot it was here. As odd as that might sound.” For a
moment the entire church hall fell quiet, as though the storm
ceased to blow outside and Reverend Polk held the cloth to his
face and took in a deep breath.
Still wishing to make his presence known, as though he
could offer some kind of support, Pappy added, “It don’t sound
odd at all boss.”
“Forget it.” Reverend Polk stood, still clutching onto the
cloth and then he turned to address Justin. “Son, just come have a
seat up front with me so we can have a talk.”
Reverend Polk set one hand upon Justin’s shoulders,
clutching him behind the neck and directed him towards the front
pews. He draped the cloth over the back pew closest to the door
and left it there. “Go to bed Pappy.”

As the two men made their way towards the front pews,
Reverend Polk tried to consider the best approach for dealing with
the situation. He spent many years thinking about Justin and he
often wondered when the young man would show up, ready to ask
questions about his wife and son or worse, he imagined him
showing up at his door, drunk like he was tonight, looking to seek
revenge upon God for his loss. And with each step closer towards
the front of the church Reverend Polk considered how best to
address and rebut the rage he felt growing within Justin’s heart. My
Lord, this is when I need you most, he thought to himself. Don’t let me
mess this one up.
Justin Olerude Bower was what Reverend Polk referred to
as a lost soul—a lost sheep in search of the Good Shepherd.
People like Justin, those who had lost loved ones or carried
burdens they didn’t feel their lives warranted or suffered adversities
for the sake of doing what’s right, were the very reason the ministry
existed and he knew this and may have understood it better than
most men or women who served within the Lord’s ministry. His
approach was considered unconventional because he didn’t gear his
ministry towards that of most religious sects and religions,
practicing traditional processions or church services. He felt a man
or woman was right to simply live out their lives in accordance
with the details and instructions within the Holy Bible. He felt a
minister’s duties were to translate that basis into a more readily
understood expression and language that would allow those same
people to walk in the path of the Lord, ultimately walking their way
into the very gates of heaven. He felt there was a time to teach, to
help explain the scriptures and the reasons for God’s lessons and
there was a time to listen, to help soothe the soul as one might
need it. But even still, with his years of wisdom and dedication to a
higher purpose, it wasn’t until now, dripping wet from the rains
and tired that Reverend Hillard Ray Polk felt properly suited to
handle the situation he has dreaded for nearly six years.
“Here son. Sit here,” Polk said, pointing to the wooden
pew.
Justin nodded and set himself down, looking back and over
his shoulder for the old man who had punched him just moments
ago. Pappy continued to monitor the situation from the back of the
church, close to the main entrance and he was busy, steadily
dragging the broom across the floor. When the two made eye
contact again, he caught Mr. Pappy pointing at his cheek and then
directing his point back towards Justin, in a manner as if to remind
Justin of his straight-right punch. Justin shook it off. Asshole.
Reverend Polk was ready to begin and just before he
started speaking to Justin, he noticed the two men were still busy
mocking one another and despite his frustrations with them both,
he began to feel bad for rebuking such a loyal helper. Pappy was
good to him and faithful to supporting his work around the
church-house, always busy taking care of those menial tasks that
would otherwise take time away from his prayer and service
preparations. But somewhere in the midst of the argument between
Justin and Pappy, Reverend Polk had an epiphany. He had what
was called a moment of enlightenment. His first reaction should
have been to throw Justin to the street, not so much for being
drunk, but for showing up at the church in his condition so late in
the night, especially in such terrible weather. But standing there,
watching the two men argue, Polk realized something different. He
didn’t see Justin as a drunken aggressor fighting his way into the
church; what he saw instead was a broken and battered man, who
was on the brink of losing whatever remaining hope he still clung
to within his heart, who lived lost and alone within a cabin just
north of town. It was at that very moment that Reverend Polk
realized that his own purpose within the ministry was not only to
serve those members who faithfully attended service in their own
religious patterns but to reach for those who have given up on life
and any possibility of finding peace while their soul still carried the
breath of life. Reverend Polk knew he would have been wrong for
casting Justin away knowing a move that devastating could have
dire consequences for someone so avid upon the topic of his own
death.
“Justin,” Polk called.
Justin hung his head, greasy wet strands of hair covered his
face and he stared at the floor and to his muddy boots.
“Justin,” Polk said again.
“Yes sir.”
“Justin look at me.”
Justin lifted his head, staring first at the large image of a
cross set behind the pulpit and then secondly upon the face of
Reverend Polk. To Justin the Reverend seemed to appear much
older than he remembered him. He didn’t seem to carry the same
type of strength as he remembered him last.
“Justin, talk to me. Please.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” There was a
world of things Justin wished to discuss, things he wished to
disclose and things he wished he could do, but lost somewhere,
deep inside him, other feelings began to take control, pushing their
way outwards from the depths of his soul and he felt lost, unsure
of himself.
“You came here tonight for a reason son. I just want you
to talk to me,” Polk said, searching for Justin’s face with his eyes.
“Just talk. That’s all.”
Justin began to get nervous and in his anxiety, his legs
began to shake. To help ease the tension of the moment, Polk set
his hands upon one of Justin’s legs and asked again for him to let
go of his fears and simply talk. “You can do this son. It’s okay,”
Polk said.
“I don’t know what to say,” Justin said. “Or where to start.
I have so much anger running through my mind right now that I
don’t know where to begin. I feel like I can’t see straight anymore.”
He ran his fingers through his long greasy hair and then scratched
at his beard. “I don’t want to do it anymore.” I’m tired.
“Do what?” Polk asked. Oh Lord don’t say it. “You don’t
want to do what anymore son?”
Justin looked away, shielding his face from Reverend
Polk’s eyes and then returned his attention back again. “Live,” he
said.
As much as he didn’t want to hear it, Reverend Polk knew
Justin was going to say that. To the Reverend and nearly all the
town of Seymour, it was only a question of when Justin would take
his own life, not whether or not he would actually do it.
“Six years is a long time to carry a burden of any sort,”
Polk said. “Don’t ya think you been carryin’ this one long enough
Justin?” He said it as if he were trying to convince himself as much
as he tried to persuade Justin.
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Justin asked without
consideration for how he might be offending the Reverend with his
language. “Am I supposed to wake up every mornin’ and act like it
never happened? Am I supposed to act like they never lived? Like
they never existed?” He stared directly into Polk’s eyes and asked,
“Am I supposed to act like it never happened?”
Justin stood to continue his plea, waving his arms and
hands in a manner of exclaiming his point. “They are dead! You
understand that? I had a wife and a son and they are dead. Do you
hear what the hell I am saying? They are dead and they left me
alone here in this God forsaken world, to rot away, alone in some
dirty ass cabin!”
 Pappy began to get nervous and in hearing the way Justin
was talking to his boss, he tossed his broom towards the floor and
began making his way towards the front of the church. Reverend
Polk noticed Mr. Pappy’s sudden movement and again waved him
away, concerned for the actions of his loyal subject. He gestured
for him to stay in place, never saying a word to him. He returned
his attention back towards Justin.
“Go on son,” Polk said, holding Pappy in place with one
hand. Please don’t come over here, Polk thought.
“What?” Pappy yelled from the back of the church. “You
gonna let this man come into this here building and defile this holy
place?”
“Pappy quit it,” Polk said, adjusting his glasses on his nose
as he rose to his feet.
“Day after day and night after night, I had to sit alone in
that place, dirty and sweaty and stinky,” he said, smelling his own
armpits. “Do you have any Earthly idea what it’s like to sit around
and wait on your own death? Do you know what it’s like to know
that all you ever cared for in the world was taken away from you?
And to think that you might be able to see them again, because no
one really knows for sure what happens when we die,” he said
pointing at Reverend Polk as if to exclaim his doubt. “And to think
that if you take your own life, you might get to see them sooner.”
He shook his head. “But you can’t. You know why? Because you’re
too much of a fuckin’ coward to blow your own brains out and just
end it all.”
Justin paused for a moment, in doubt at what he was
saying and surprised by the amount of relief he began to feel by
getting his feelings off his chest and throwing them into someone
else’s face, as if they were responsible for his loss. “Because I do
Mr. Polk,” he said, pounding himself in the chest with his fists. “I
know what it’s like and let me tell you, it’s no damn fairy tale.” He
held his finger firmly towards the Reverend’s face and continued.
“And I don’t give a shit what you believe or what you think is real,
because the only certainty in this world is death. And I’m gonna
find it before you!”
“Alright,” Pappy said. “I’ve heard enough! I’m throwing
this man outta here! He’s not gonna stand there and talk to you
that way any longer!”
Reverend Polk stood his ground, looking at Justin and then
to Pappy, hoping neither one would make a move towards the
other. “Pappy I said back off and mind your own business! Can’t
you do what you are told, just this once?” Polk said in a desperate
plea.
“Come on,” Justin said. “The way I’m feelin’ right now, I’ll
snap your neck in half old man!”
“Justin,” Polk said. “No!”
“Ya think so?” Pappy asked, heading steadily forward
towards the front pews where Justin and Reverend Polk were now
standing.
“Pappy,” Polk said again. “Quit it!”
“Come on old man. I’ll give you a taste of what I’ve had to
go through and I assure you, all your goddamn prayin’ and
sweating in this house ain’t gonna save you one bit!” Justin said,
holding his arms up towards the sky.
“Justin please! Calm down and and have a seat and talk
with me,” Polk said, setting himself directly in front of Justin’s view
of Mr. Pappy. “Pappy, I said go!” Polk yelled over his shoulder.
Mr. Pappy made his charge towards Justin and before he
could get within arms length, Reverend Polk was already walking
sideways, with his arms extended between them both and with
every ounce of self control, he turned his back towards Justin and
held Pappy firmly in place with both hands and said, “That’s
enough Pappy! Now get the hell outta here right now!”
With the exception of the winds and rains that splattered
against the windows and the rooftop, the church hall fell silent and
neither Justin nor Mr. Pappy said another word. The three men
paused to take in the moment, allowing their feelings to begin to
subside and outside the thunder growled and it echoed within the
interior walls of the church.
Pappy stood still, lifeless and shocked, and he had
exhausted any further attempts at interrupting his boss. In front of
him, Reverend Polk stood blankly, his face had lost its sharpness
and he appeared dull as clay and uncertain of what to say or how
next to react. Behind him, Justin waited for someone to interrupt
the odd silence and say something. Justin had temporarily lost his
rage, Pappy had seemingly lost his will to press his concerns and
Reverend Polk had the look of a man who wished he were
somewhere else in the world, other than where he now stood.
“Reverend?” Justin asked. “Say something.”
“He ain’t gotta say nothin’ to me boy,” Pappy said. He
gave a fictitious smile and said, “That’s the bell. It’s time for me to
go. Fights over.”
“Pappy wait,” Polk said in a whisper. He wanted to
apologize but he knew it was of little use, considering the
circumstances. Pappy wouldn’t understand and for the moment,
Reverend Polk didn’t have time to explain himself. He watched as
Mr. Pappy walked away, disappearing into the back corridor of the
church behind the pulpit, kicking over boxes as he passed them.
“Oh Lord save us,” Polk said under his breath.
“Reverend Polk. I’m sorry,” Justin said, looking around the
church. “I never meant for this to happen tonight and I don’t even
know why I’m here.”
Polk turned his body towards Justin, slowly, and then
reassured the young man that all would work out as it should. He
closed his eyes and shook his head in disgust with the moment and
in his own actions towards Mr. Pappy and when he opened his eyes
he gave Justin a stern look and this time he ordered Justin to have a
seat.
Outside, the thunder and the winds continued to rattle the
church-house windows and the lightning flashed, lighting up the
interior of the church as the rain splattered against the Earth. The
town of Seymour was completely enthralled within the storm.
“We need to talk Justin,” Polk said sternly. “It’s time for
you to make your peace with God. Whatever it is you think you
wanna do, it’s time to do it. The rest of us have lives we still want
to live. And we’re not carrying your burdens anymore.”
—12—

Justin sat in the pew next to Polk and this time he didn’t
interrupt; he only listened as Reverend Polk detailed the events of
the crash some six years ago. It was obvious by the way Polk wore
the expressions on his face that having to describe the events of
that night was hard on him but even harder knowing he would be
describing the loss of a mother and son, to the young man who
had to live the past six years without them.
“I was home,” Polk said. “I was upstairs in my kitchen,
studying when it happened. I remember that night like it was
yesterday son. It was rainin’ that afternoon, just like it is today. I
had worked on the lawn that entire mornin’, and then suddenly,
out from nowhere it started to rain. I remember being thankful for
the rains because at the time, I had to work in the yard alone and it
was incredibly hot that mornin’. Pappy wasn’t with me at that time
and the yard work was getting harder on me.” He appeared
saddened after referencing Mr. Pappy, but he continued on.
Justin adjusted himself nervously; hearing Mr. Pappy’s
name referenced in such an important manner made him feel sorry
for the fight and more so because of the way Reverend Polk had to
intervene, ultimately throwing his loyal friend out in the midst of
the rain because of his own drunken masquerade.
“Mister Polk,” Justin said. “Your friend. I’m sorry about
what happened earlier. It’s not what I wanted.”
 Reverend Polk waved him off, as if to say forget it. He
gave a stern objective look, in a manner of saying, no more
interruptions and continued with the somber tale of that night.
“Like I was saying, I was here, studying when the rains
come in. It came and went in a hurry, which I remember being very
odd for these parts. We don’t get a lot of rains here out west. And
besides that,” Polk added, “we don’t get a lot of emergencies
either. So when the fire house alarms went off, it immediately got
my attention and the rest of the town folk.
“At first, many people thought a twister had come through
unannounced or maybe lightning struck a home or even a person.
Anyhow, I got a telephone call later that night from Wanda
Rettenhower. She was one of those doctors down at the hospital.”
Polk looked to Justin. “Well, you knew that. Well, she called and all
she said was, Pastor, if you asleep, get up. We need you.”
Polk returned his attention back towards Justin and he
saw the young man’s eyes widen. He was focusing on nothing in
front of him, obviously caught in a dangerous daydream of some
sort. “Son, are you still with me?”
Justin blinked twice and his eyes were glazed over with
tears. “Yeah, go ahead, I’m sorry.”
“So, I say okay and get dressed. I grabbed my Sunday
clothes and headed down to the hospital. When I got there, the
waiting room was packed with all sorts of people and most of them
rushed towards me when I walked in. Of course, nobody knew
who you were, but we all knew Ralph. And everyone was afraid he
might be dead on account the sheriff, Sheriff Ryman, he didn’t tell
nobody no details, only that Ralph’s flatbed truck collided with a
passing car and that three people were in the hospital.”
“Three?” Justin asked, counting the victims in his head.
 “Well, three and your son Justin,” Polk said realizing what
Justin was doing with his thoughts. “I went in to find Dr.
Rettenhower and one of her staff asked me to reassure everyone
that Ralph was okay. Of course, they all wanted to know who the
others were, but I told them we didn’t know yet. I went into the
doctor’s personal office and waited for her to call me in.”
Justin began to think back and he realized that of all the
time spent alone in his cabin, thinking about his deceased wife and
son, he hadn’t ever really thought about their death the way he was
tonight. It was as if he somehow blocked out the truth of what
happened to them and only focused on the fact that they were
gone to him.
“I was unconscious for three days,” Justin said. “I
remember the rains too. I remember telling my wife that the storm
wouldn’t catch us before we hit the Lubbock area.” He shook his
head in disgust. “But we both agreed the drive might be more
scenic and more attractive than taking the highway like we always
did.” Justin shook his head in disbelief and continued. “But it
caught up to us and we had to slow down. A lot.” He took a heavy
swallow and his bottom lip began to quiver and his tone became
mellower than it had been earlier this night. “I think I was yelling at
my son, telling him to sit still in the back seat and the last thing I
remember was my wife yelling, oh my god.”
Reverend Polk waited for a pause in Justin’s story before
he continued.
“When the nurse come get me, I remember how scared she
looked. She looked sad. When Dr. Rettenhower approached me,
she told me that Ralph was gonna be okay but that,” he paused,
considering his choice of words for a moment. He knew he had to
be careful with his approach to the topic of Justin’s loss.
Justin was aware of Polk’s hesitation and asked him to
continue. “It’s okay Mr. Polk. I need to know. I have tried for so
long to kill my desire to know what happened. I mean in the
beginning people tried to tell me, but I shushed them or cursed
them away. Either way I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear
anything but the sound of my car being smashed by Ralph’s truck.
I thought I could hide from the memory by abandoning my life as I
knew it, by living under the bridge but it didn’t work. I ran until I
found a safe place to hide in that cabin. A safe place to die,” he
finished, with tears now trickling down the side of his face. “I can’t
explain it, but when I got to that cabin, it was like all my memories
ceased and I couldn’t hear it anymore. I couldn’t hear the crash or
the ambulance or the sounds of my wife and son’s voices.”
“Your wife was the first to pass son,” Polk said. “The
doctor’s told me that she died almost immediately.” Reverend Polk
put his head down and said, “It was trauma to the head. Ralph’s
truck hit on her side. When I spoke to Ralph later, he said he saw
you swerving into his lane, just as he made the curve in the road
and the next thing he knew, you cut the tires back into your lane
and the car spun around, and he never had a chance to react.”
Justin hid his face in his hands and he wept. He began to
wail profusely, his cries echoing throughout the hall, drowning out
the sounds of the rain and the storm outside. “What about my boy?
My son? What happened to my baby boy? Did he feel anything?
Any pain?” Justin asked.
Polk reached over and wrapped his arms around Justin,
pulling him inward and the young man’s head was set into his
bosom and the preacher held him firmly against his chest.
As much as it hurt Reverend Polk to talk about that night,
he had to force himself to say the words. He was there, prayed over
the deceased body of Mrs. Christy Mills Bower. He held her hand,
and he remembered it being lifeless and dull, a mold without a soul.
He remembered how much he tried to learn from seeing her lie
helpless on the hospital bed. He tried to imagine what type of
mother she was and what type of mother she would have been,
what type of wife she was and whether or not her husband loved
her. Seeing Justin today, crying his heart out as if he lost her only
yesterday, he believed he got his answers to those questions and
there was no further doubt as to what type of human being she was
in life.
“No. He fought it Justin. He died the next evening. I was
there with him. Held him the same way I’m holdin’ you right now.
I prayed for him Justin for two whole days. Everyone did.”
Polk remembered the hospital waiting room and how
quickly it filled with curious visitors on that rainy night. People
came and went between work shifts and lunch hours over the
course of three days and every one of them was hopeful, hopeful
that some member of that family—Justin’s family—the most of
which was the little boy, might survive.
“I was holding his hand when he passed on,” Polk said in a
whisper. “When news spread around town that your son had
passed on to be with the Lord, the hospital chapel became too
crowded to handle all the people,” Polk said. “I opened the
church-house and I held a prayer service and the people came from
all over town to be quiet and pray for your family Justin.”
“I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye,” Justin said between
heavy sobs. “I didn’t get a chance to tell either one of them I was
sorry Reverend.” Justin was re-living the scene of the accident
within his head.
“I know son.” Reverend Polk fought back the urgency to
break down and cry himself; he could feel his throat begin to
thicken and he found it harder not to break down. But Polk knew
he wouldn’t do Justin any good to cry, but rather he would offer
more support by listening and letting Justin let loose of his own
emotions, and ultimately, forgive himself. “Sometimes. Most of the
times,” Polk started again, “life don’t work out the way we want or
expect it to.”
 Justin pulled himself away from Polk’s grasp and asked
with a heavy heart. “Why? Why would God allow this to happen? I
had a family. I loved them.”
“I know you did son. God knows you did,” Polk said,
grabbing Justin’s face, forcing him to look directly into his eyes. Oh
God, I‘m sorry son. “It’s just the way life works out, that’s all, nothing
you can do about it.”
“Why didn’t I die with them? Why didn’t I pass on? The
accident was my fault,” Justin said. “If I hadn’t turned the wheel so
hard, or been yelling at my son or if I had taken the same road we’d
always taken, so many damn times before, none of this would have
happened.”
“No Justin. When it’s your time there is nothin’ you can do
to change that. Whether it was here or there or any other road, if it
was your time to go, it was your time.”
“But it wasn’t,” Justin said instantly. “I lost a son and a
wife who loved me and I am here, alone and alive, living in a dirty
cabin by myself, too scared to take my own life.”
“Is that what you want?”
Justin was silent for a moment and then he answered.
“Yes. I’m tired and I’m ready to sleep. Forever. I try to forget them
and then on those days I feel that I need to remember, I can’t see
their faces anymore.”
Polk sat back in his pew, stretching his body against the
firm wooden backrest and he took in a long breath, weighing his
options for a rebuttal. He knew he had to be very cautious with his
next responses because the life of a young man weighed in the
balance. Life and Death were interlocked in a spiritual tug-of-war,
like Justin and Mr. Pappy were just moments ago.
What was he to say to that? I can’t have his blood on my hands
Lord, he thought. Taking their own lives was the universal response
for mankind, the natural reaction to men who had given up hope
and who had surrendered their will to fear. How many times had
he heard someone say those very words to him, as if serving in the
ministry dubbed you responsible for all those people who were
suicidal? Why deal with the pain of loss when you can take your
own life? Reverend Polk knew his next few comments would be
the determining factors in Justin Olerude Bower’s decision to live
in this world or die.
“Can I tell you a story son?” Polk asked.
“You were there with him?” Justin asked. “You said you
held his hand right? Tell me Reverend, was he sad? Was he afraid?
Did he ask for his daddy?”
“Justin, you can’t do this to yourself. Haven’t you suffered
enough already? It’s time for you to move on with your life. You’re
gonna have to let go son.”
“Did he look around? Was he looking for me? Was he mad
at me for not being there?”
“Justin please, I wanna tell you a story, a story about life.”
“No!” Justin cried standing and kicking a chair that was set
in front of him. “No more stories!” He looked to Reverend Polk.
“I don’t want to hear anymore of that everything happens for a
reason bullshit!”
“Everything does happen for a reason Justin. But those
reasons aren’t always good ones like most people try to make them
out to seem,” Polk said. “And I ain’t gonna give you any of that
tonight.” Polk stood, wincing as he stood to his feet, and he eased
his way around Justin, making his way towards his pulpit. Justin
was still talking, but Polk could no longer hear him. He bowed his
head and under his breath he said, “Lord Jesus. Save me from this
moment.”
Reverend Hillard Ray Polk stood upon his pulpit. And
standing there, erect upon his platform where he performed his
magical duties in service to God Almighty, he appeared to be
transformed into the image of power, love, and confidence, right
before Justin’s eyes.
“This is a simple story about a pond Justin,” he said. “This
is the best way I know to describe what happens to us in our lives.
It’s something that came to me, not long after my own wife
passed,” Polk finished, pointing towards the back of the church as
if to reference her or perhaps her spirit within the embroidered
cloth.
Polk began to recite his tale to Justin and the analogy was
the most simplistic means he had to describe the purpose and place
of man’s existence in this world with comparison to how and why
God does or does not intervene in our lives.
When Aretha May passed some eleven years ago, her
widowed husband had to endure the agony suffered by so many,
without any explanations and no direct answers as to why from
anyone. And the depth of the loss suffered, can in essence, kill the
willingness of the soul to continue on in the world of the living.
Many people seek solitude, or the face or voice of Jesus, and others
become hateful, spiteful towards those people who haven’t had to
taste such loss. Some turn to alcohol or drugs, others to hatred and
some just quit. In all the years working within the ministry of the
Lord’s service, Reverend Hillard Ray Polk summed up the essence
of life with a story of a pebble and a pond.
“Imagine a pond Justin,” Polk said, speaking with his
hands. “See it? It’s large and beautiful and clear. The water is pure
and it is still and nothing stirs in it, not even the soft white sand on
the bottom. The pond is so still that it looks like glass and the
creator of that pond can see his own image in it.
“And seeing his own image in the pond, the creator
decides to begin the cycle of life. No magic to it, other than the
power of creation itself. And the creator picks up a pebble from far
off in the heavens like a star in the night’s sky and he drops that
pebble in the middle of the pond. And somewhere in the midst of
the splash Justin, life begins.”
 Polk’s eyes widened and he continued the tale. “The sands
were stirred from the bottom of the pond and the water that once
was pure became unclear and clouded with thousands of tiny
granules of sand, tossed here and there in the water. The sands that
stirred underneath caused a rippling effect in the water and the
waves began to gather, some on one side and some on the other,
but never in all the sides of the pond at once. The weight of the
water that crashed upon one shore, kicked back and under and
then trickled across to other shores. But always Justin, always, the
water and the sand moved from that day forward. It would never
be pure and still again, because the cycle of life had begun to
manifest within the pond and the creator would never see his
perfect image in the reflection of that pond again.” Polk smiled.
“The pond would never be the same as it was before the
day the pebble fell into it and there was no predestined pattern to
how or when the sand was stirred or where the waves came
crashing down. The only certainty was this. Life had begun and the
waters were in motion. Life was in motion. There was no pattern
or plan to where the water came crashing down or where the sand
settled only that life had happened and that was that.” Polk nodded
his head, as if saying yes, hoping that Justin might do the same in
an attempt to convey understanding.
Justin looked to Polk, partially confused with the message
the old man was trying to deliver in his analogy as if somehow the
people of the cloth magically learned to speak in parables. What the
hell are you trying to tell me old man?
“What are you trying to say, that I should just shut up and
deal with it? Or are you saying that I should just end it and take my
own life?”
“What I’m sayin’ Justin is that just like you, I had to find
the means to let go and move on or surrender my own life just like
you’re thinkin’ about doin’. You’re not the only one who has
suffered in this world. Everything in this world is a choice.
Sometimes we find ourselves in clear water, where the path ahead
is easily understood and everything around us is calm and peaceful
and nice. But sometimes we find ourselves traveling into parts of
the pond where the water has been stirred, not by God on some
quest to destroy us, but by the very cycle of life. We walk straight
into shores that the water has crashed upon or is about to smash
into and it’s no fault of our own. What happens, happens, Justin.
It’s just life, there’s no magic to it.
“The pebble has been dropped in the pond and life has
begun and we only have to make the choice of how we are gonna
deal with those seasons of calmness and peace or the storms that
crash against our shores.”
Polk thought for a moment, and although he didn’t want
to preach to Justin for fear of running the young man away, he did
want to do everything within his power to talk to him and listen to
him, knowing he was responsible for ministering to the lost and
confused. He felt it was his duty.
For so many years Reverend Polk became trapped in the
game that is the ministry, where men and women of the Lord’s
service forget those who are outside their own church community,
as if somehow, those people who came to church on Sundays—
every Sunday—were better than those people who did not.
Tonight, Polk realized that he was responsible for the souls of all
those men and women in the world who were lost to the Lord’s
Word, not those who had already chosen to walk in the path of the
light. Not just the black, the poor, the Anglo or the rich. If he was
to be complete in his efforts to serve the Lord, he had to conquer
his own demons, those who would have him seclude himself from
life and hide within the false security of his church and his garage
apartment for the sake of being righteous. He nodded his head as if
agreeing with himself and he began again.
 “The thirtieth chapter of the book of Deuteronomy says
God has set before us life and good, death and evil Justin. It’s up to
us to choose son. It’s up to us to choose our own path.”
Polk stepped down from his pulpit and coming upon
Justin, placed his hand upon his head and said, “You have a choice
son. You have a choice. Death and Life are always going to fight
for the claim of your soul Justin, but ultimately the victor is
determined by you and your actions.” Polk returned an awkward
smile to the young man and began to walk away, making his way
towards the back of the church where Justin and Pappy had their
small confrontation.
Justin stood. He was confused as ever but more so because
he was still fighting the willingness to heal himself and set himself
loose of his burdens and worries and fears. Pity had become a
comfortable garment for him, providing a false sense of security
like a blanket used in a hot summer night. “So that’s your answer
Reverend? A pebble falls into a pond and sometimes the water is
clear and sometimes its not?”
Addressing the young man as he walked away Polk replied,
“It’s not the answer Justin. It’s just a story. But either way you take
it son, you have to make a choice.” He turned to address Justin
and continued, “You can go back to that cabin in the woods and sit
there ‘til you rot for all I care or you can kick the dust off your
boots and start over.” Careful Polk, he thought. Challenge him to live,
but don’t force him to take his own life.
Reverend Polk surprised himself and he was proud of his
answers and how well he was dealing with the present situation. He
was becoming more confident in his approach to break down the
barrier that had become Justin’s security and his mental torment
for nearly six-years.
Polk turned again and walked until he found the
embroidered cloth as he had set it upon the back of a pew earlier
this night. He held it in his hands again and silently read the words
to himself.
“Expect a miracle.”
“Oh, you’re so right honey,” Polk said, addressing his late
wife’s embroidery. It was something she used to say, her small
effort at encouraging her husband who too was apt to quit when
times got hard. She was his pillar and he had to find a way to
survive without her after she passed, knowing it was okay and right
to love again, but choosing not to love anyone else. And, he had to
find joy and purpose in his life even after realizing a woman of her
special beauty could never be replaced by someone new. “You are
so right honey.”
Justin scratched his head and then his greasy beard and
lifting his hands into the air in sarcastic submission he yelled aloud,
breaking Reverend Polk’s chain of thought, “I guess that’s it! I
gotta choice! Shut up and deal with it and start my life over or go
back home and blow my damn brains out! Halleluiah!”
“That’s enough cursing Justin!” Polk said almost
instantaneously without looking back over his shoulder. His tone
had changed from soft and compassionate to sharp and direct.
“Play time’s over son.” Polk lifted the embroidered cloth to his
face and closing his eyes he took in a breath of the imaginary scent
of his loving wife Aretha May and his eyes became heavy with
tears. One day baby, he thought. He could almost picture her there,
standing beside him, possibly even upset that he got up from bed
so late in the night to deal with Justin or more so because Polk
might have wanted to ignore Justin and give up on him.
“Let me ask you something son. You think you the only
man in this world who has lost something in all this? I can tell you
about two other people who been affected by this whole crash of
yours. One,” Polk said, holding a finger in the air, “is probably
sittin’ at work right now, carrying the same burden you are and the
other, for reasons God only knows, is trying to carry it for you.”
“Who?”
 “She come to see me,” Polk said starting another tale. “It
was the first time I actually met her.” He lowered the cloth. “She
sat up front, ‘bout where we sat all this evening and she prayed and
cried her little heart out for you. I asked her why, but only once. I
could see some real hurt in those big eyes. Hurt for you and your
loss Justin.”
Justin weighed the options for a moment, though they
were few. He could count on one hand the number of people who
actually spoke to him and that did not include his new friend
Pappy, who punched him in the eye earlier tonight.
It couldn’t be, he thought. That whore? The word whore lost
some of its derogatory power and his frown turned to a subtle
smile and he remembered how good he felt being so close to her
tonight. “It couldn’t be,” Justin said. “You mean that little whore?”
he asked, fighting back his urgency to want or like her, as if he had
to somehow mask his feelings for another human— for another
woman.
“No Justin,” Polk said, stopping him from saying anything
further. “You of all people should know better than to judge
someone based on what others have to say about ‘em. And don’t
you dare use that word in this here church, especially not about her,
you understand me?”
Polk turned his body in a manner of allowing Justin to see
he demanded his full attention. “She was at the hospital. Prayed for
your son, just like we all did. When I opened this church for prayer
service, she was here too. And as quickly as the devil stirs, she was
takin’ ridicule from every woman in this church. The same folk
who agreed with me on that pulpit up there that gossip is a sin,
were sitting in here and talkin’ about her, whispering behind her
back. Talking about that beautiful young girl. And all she did was
pray for you and your son and cried. Probably shedding tears for
you because you were still unconscious.” Polk stared him in the
eyes. “So don’t you come in here and call her no names, especially
that one. You understand me?”
 “I didn’t know,” Justin said softly, feeling rebuked.
“How was you to know? But in all this mess, something
tells me that you knew all along. Somethin’ in me says, you knew
from the moment you met her. Not only that,” Polk continued,
“There’s more. And you better listen good now, you hear?” Polk
waited for Justin to respond with a nod and he continued.
“She helped raise the funds to bury your family Justin,”
Polk said.
Justin’s eyes widened and he became scared, remembering
through all his agony how he never visited the final resting place of
his wife Christy and their son. “I thought the church covered the
cost,” he said.
Polk knew his statement would gain Justin’s full undivided
attention, and he hoped it would help wash away some of the
hatred that had been boiling within his heart the entire evening.
“Yeah, we did. I helped arrange the funeral procession and
the burial arrangements but the initial steps were coordinated by
her. She went door to door collectin’ money and sympathy for your
family. People no one even knew. I also hear she collected a large
sum of money from that bar you like to visit.” Polk began pacing
back and forth as he finished the rest of his story.
“I didn’t go with her but I hear they had a party and
everyone brought what money they could afford to help you. But,
after a while people became skeptical. They were unsure whether
they could trust her, you know because of rumors and all, so she
brought the money to me, begging me to make sure all the
arrangements were met in a proper manner. After the funeral I
never heard from her again. I left an open invitation to join me
here for a cup of tea or a glass of lemonade, but she never came by
again. Like everyone else, I only heard about her after that.”
If words were an anchor, Polk’s words weighed heavy
upon Justin’s soul. He took in the entire story, and for the
moment, missed the sense of peace he had in the midst of her
company earlier tonight and he wished he could somehow take
back all the hurtful things he said to her. He had been so cruel to
her, only to learn tonight, that she gave so much of herself to see
his wife and son were properly laid to rest.
Because Justin’s mother had died before he met his wife,
and his wife in return was raised by a grandmother, only to be
passed to Justin’s care when they married, neither one of them—
he nor Christy—had any real family to see them properly laid to
rest. He remembered the feeling of completion they shared when
their son was born, having for a brief moment something neither
one of them really had growing up as children—a family to call
their own.
“And the other person?” Justin asked.
“The other?” Polk said. “He used to sit in the front row
too. He was an active man of faith, who believed as strongly in the
Lord’s good Word as me and he was my friend. But after the crash
he began to wilt away. Every Sunday he crept back further and
further away until one day I seen him in the back row,” Polk said,
pointing to the rows, one by one as if he were counting them.
“Until one day he sort of disappeared. I mean, he still comes to
church every Sunday, even now, but his spirit has faded so much,
we don’t see him anymore. Now, I believe I’m the only one who
does. Or at least wants to.”
“Ralph,” Justin said matter-of-factly. “It’s him isn’t it
Reverend?”
Polk shook his head in agreement. “Uh huh.”
“But why? He didn’t kill them. It was an accident.”
“And a tragic one it was Justin. But he don’t know that. All
he knows is one day he is alive and believing in something good
and greater than us all. I even hear he had a special woman in his
life, but she gone now. But just like you and me, one day, the waves
come crashing down on his shore and all that’s left when the water
receded was a broken man, without a wife and son. And now,
everyday, he tries to hide from the guilt of killing your family.”
Polk squeezed the embroidered cloth in his hand and pointed to
Justin. “For taking away somethin’ so good, from you. Try living
with that burden son and doing it alone, just like you.” Polk
thought about his own life. “Just like both of us.”
Justin shook his head and under his breath, softly, he said
to no one but himself, “I’m sorry. I never knew.”
“Why you think you got that place to stay and all that food
for free all them Saturdays?” Polk asked. “Sure, he’s a good man,
salt of the Earth, but it’s the guilt that keeps him so busy, working
hard to earn forgiveness that only you can offer. Forgiveness that
can’t be acquired by working lots of hours or doin’ good deeds.”
Polk shook his head. “The poor man can’t even get a decent
night’s sleep from what I hear. The guilt eats at him the same as it
does us all.”
“That’s why you put those Sunday pamphlets in my
grocery bins on Saturdays?” Justin asked. “Isn’t it?”
Polk nodded. “I ain’t the one who put them there Justin.”
“Then it was him,” Justin said.
“You need to forgive that man. But that ain’t my place to
tell you what to do.” Polk placed the embroidered cloth back atop
one of the pews and passing Justin, put his hand out, waiting for
Justin to place his hand in his. The two men shook.
“Ripples in the pond Justin. You are not the only one
affected or the only one who has gone through something like this.
Not a day goes by I don’t miss my wife son, but I have to get up
everyday and find a reason and purpose to survive one more day
God gives me on this Earth. Understand?”
Polk released his hand and Justin shook his head in
agreement. “But understand this. A man can’t grant forgiveness
until he can learn to forgive himself.” The old man headed
towards the front of the church, bidding Justin good-night.
 “Now what?” Justin asked in a shout, addressing the back
of Reverend Polk’s grey head and tired body.
“You’ll figure it out. I gotta get to bed. Tomorrow this
place will be full of pebbles and sand.”
Justin said thank-you and watched as Reverend Hillard Ray
Polk turned and disappeared into the dark corridor behind his
pulpit.
“You come back now Justin,” Polk said from within the
shadows of the hallway. “Anything you need, you let me know. Just
know, you gonna be alright.”
“What if I make the wrong choice?”
“There are no wrong answers Justin; there is only the right
choices for you and you alone. It’s the one you can live with when
you look in the mirror.”
Justin stood still and let his eyes wander around the
perimeter of what was the church hall and for the first time in
many years, he felt at peace with his decision and himself. He
noticed the embroidered cloth, draped over one of the back pews
and looking around as though he were being watched he took it,
folding it neatly into his pocket. He left the church, quietly, trying
not to disturb the newfound peace that settled in and lingered in
that still water and quietly, closed the door behind him as he left.
He said thank-you to no one but himself.
—13—

Ralph Winslow Parison stirred his drink with a plastic

spoon and tossed it onto the pavement below. He stood on the
concrete steps behind the I.F.A. Foodstore and watched the
approaching storm as it gathered above the small Texas town of
Seymour. Outside, the broken parking lot was filled with small
puddles and pools of rain and all across the asphalt were scattered
traces of broken glass that sparkled like diamonds under the stormy
sky. He lit his second cigarette and although he hated the smell and
taste of tobacco, it helped to relax him at night, and enough
cigarettes in succession helped ease his body into a sleep-like state.
That coupled with his series of mixed drinks.
He was a small town man nearing the age of fifty, who had
lived and been no where other than Seymour. He was tall, thin, and
lanky and his eyes and the manner in which he carried himself gave
the impression he was much older than his age. He had never
married but he did date a woman named Darla Presley for a period
of about four years. She lived across town in Jacksboro and if
asked years ago, while still in the midst of courting her, he would
have said she was his sweetheart without delay. The love of his life.
And as much as he bragged about his devotion to Ms. Darla
Presley, and how much he loved her and how lucky he was to call
her his own, he had childlike tendencies to close up and become
timid and shy whenever someone brought up the subject of
marriage. He did everything he could to avert the topic.
 Ralph was born in the midst of the early rock-n-roll era and
he loved to listen to the sounds of Elvis Presley. He was a collector
of Fifty’s memorabilia and his prized possession was a 1957
Chevrolet Bellaire. It was by no means a showroom car, though he
spent many years and hard earned dollars to restore the car to near
perfection. He had also planned on restoring a 1952 Chevrolet
pickup before giving it away. To Darla Presley, Ralph was the
coolest thing to come out of a small town, as she liked to put it,
and although she didn’t care personally for the sounds of the King,
the highlight of any Sunday afternoon was the look of her man
pulling into her driveway in his shiny metallic Bellaire.
She loved to watch him as he slowly set the car into her
driveway, careful not to scrape the chrome bumper along the
broken asphalt and concrete. She would watch him from the
screened door on her front porch, fuzzy dice hanging from the rear
view mirror, with Jail House Rock blaring from the radio. And Darla
never got tired of watching her man eject himself from the driver’s
side door, with his hair slicked straight back with the smell of
pomade and his short sleeves rolled up like James Dean. He carried
a look of humility in his eyes and a walk of confidence in his steps.
And with all sincerity and the swagger of a smooth gentlemen, he’d
say, “You’re chariot awaits my lady,” in his best Elvis
impersonation. She loved him.
Darla didn’t care for her last name but she figured if it
captivated the attention of one Ralph Winslow Parison, the dapper
gentleman who courted her in the fashion of an older generation,
then it was perfectly acceptable. Ralph liked to tease her and tell
her that the only reason why he hadn’t yet married her was because
he didn’t want her to lose the name of Presley. She knew the truth
to be his fear of marriage and of letting her down.
Ralph sipped his drink and finished his second cigarette,
allowing the breeze to cool him down for the moment. He was
sweaty around the neckline and underneath his armpits and he was
nervous and afraid, not because of the possible storm, but because
of who he was expecting on this stormy night, a night much similar
to one that would change his life, some six years previous.
Come on Justin; let’s get this over with, he thought. “Maybe he
won’t come,” he said to himself as he tossed the finished cigarette
butt to the ground. He took in a heavy breath and let out a sigh,
remembering how much he enjoyed the feeling of the winds before
a storm and how much more he enjoyed those days with the
company of his former love.
After the crash six years ago, it became immediately
apparent to Darla Presley that she would never marry. At least, she
wouldn’t be marrying Ralph Winslow Parison. He withdrew from
his faith and his sweetheart, letting go of any attachments of the
heart and even the luster of the metallic red ’57 Bellaire lost its
brilliance and its shine. He parked the car in the driveway to his
home, letting it rot away in the sun, until the whitewall tires cracked
in the heat and became flattened by the weight of the car. He drove
to and from work in the flatbed truck that belonged to the grocery
store, and ironically, the man who opted not to marry, did in a
sense become emotionally tied down to his work, where he formed
a bond to the local grocery store, devoting every spare moment of
time and his efforts to the progression of the I.F.A. Foodstore all
in an effort to mask and hide from his own personal guilt.
His commitment to serve in The People’s Assembly of God
deteriorated slowly over the course of the next six years until his
only open commitment to God came on Sundays when he sat in
the farthest pew from the congregation mass and left before the
crowd mustered out the door together. His relationship to his
devout sweetheart Darla diminished until she became fed up with
the foolishness of his self pity and the distance between their two
hearts and she ended their four-year courtship.
She tried desperately to console and comfort her lover and
she even went as far as to offer him sex, knowing their relationship
had been completely platonic and respectful, in the hopes that her
sensual affection and the lust for his own heart might be enough to
stir any remaining glimpse of life left in his soul; but Ralph
wouldn’t have it. He had never once attempted to dishonor her
because of his faith in the Lord, and not even then, in the midst of
losing his faith, did he attempt to defile the respect and love he had
for her. His demonstration of love was pure, but not strong
enough to counter the power of guilt and self pity.
The last time Ralph attempted to visit the home of his
sweetheart was on a stormy night like this evening. He had closed
up shop in the Foodstore early, went home to shower and shave,
slicked his hair back and bought a bouquet of long stem roses. He
fired up the flatbed truck because at the time he was performing
some monthly maintenance on the Bellaire and headed towards
Jacksboro in the rain. He didn’t get farther than the bend in the
road before making his acquaintance with Justin and the grim price
of death. When it was all over, he took on a new aura by the name
of guilt and wore it so heavily that at times it was hard to recognize
the man he once was.
—14—

Ralph remained outside a moment longer, enjoying the

cooling sensation of the winds and after conversing with himself,
trying to determine whether he should wait on Justin, he killed the

last of his whiskey in his coffee cup and returned inside. Maybe he
won’t ever come back, he thought.
 He kicked the brick that held open the large steel door and
it slammed shut behind him on his way back inside the store. The
grocery store was smaller in comparison to some of the larger food
chains that populated the surrounding cities. It was similar to a
large discount grocery store, a dime-store from a wild-west story,
selling essential foods and consumables, toiletries as well as
miscellaneous merchandise like lawn mowers, low-end furniture
accessories and gadgets, and home décor. Every aisle light was off
when he made his way inside and the only illumination and sounds
in the store came from the blinking of the three register lights and
the pulsating neon sign above the front window pane that read,
‘Sorry We’re Closed.’
Ralph made his way through a small hallway, in and out of
a break room that posed as a make shift storage room, which
reeked of dirty mop water, and up and around the wooden
staircase until he reached the store manager’s office. Inside, a small
radio played the tunes of a more subtle era. Chubby Checker was
telling the world to twist again like they did that summer and next
to his portable radio was a stack of purchase orders, bills of lading,
inventory receipts and a liter of Jack Daniels Old Number 7
Whiskey. He sat down and reached for a canned soda from a small
refrigerator beneath his desk, popped the top and filled a glass one
fourth of the way up with soda and the rest with ice and whiskey.
He stretched and twisted his neck to help relieve some of the
tension in his back and reached for his bifocals that were neatly
folded on top of his stack of paperwork. He would skim through
the stack again and again until he was completely certain and
satisfied that not one mistake existed. He would sip his whiskey,
one drink at time, each glass filled with less and less soda, until all
that remained in his last glass of whiskey was Jack Daniels and ice.
This was the routine of Ralph Winslow Parison as it had
become over the course of the past six years. After the crash he
had consumed himself with work and processed the same
paperwork repeatedly until he couldn’t stand the solidarity any
longer or ran out of Jack Daniels whiskey. Ultimately, somewhere
in the middle of the night, he would go home. Most of the nights
he just sat still in his chair, leaning back and listening to the radio,
as if somehow the music would take his mind off his worries and
perhaps even remove his soul from his body, escaping to a better
place and time, a place where he could show love and a time before
Justin Olerude Bower entered his life.
Because of his workaholic lifestyle, the store was always
clean, very service oriented and highly efficient for its size and
customer volume. It went without saying that Ralph’s store was
very organized as was Ralph’s reclusive lifestyle. His staff consisted
of mostly rotating cashiers, young girls looking to earn some part-
time money, a few stock boys, and an assistant manager who
essentially made sure all was done before Ralph came around to
inspect—which mattered very little—because most of the items on
his checklist would get redone by Ralph later in the lonely
moments of the night.
On the first Saturday of each month he received his
monthly shipments of goods, first the foods, then the clothing and
lastly the miscellaneous household items. Every other Saturday
night he would close the store one-half hour early, sending his staff
home almost immediately. This extra half hour gave him time to
collect his thoughts and prepare himself for the mental turmoil that
would be his late night visitor as it had been for close to four years.
Justin would return a set of empty crates and Ralph would
fill the alternate set with the same goods from the store, including a
few extra items like the cheap whiskey and Lucky Strike cigarettes
Justin had come to prefer. Everything was legitimate and Ralph
kept an accurate record of everything that came in the store and
everything that left and found its way into the crammed wooden
crates in the truck bed of Justin’s 1952 Chevy pickup truck. Ralph
would walk the dark aisles and fill a grocery basket, almost without
having to look for the items, because he had performed the act for
so long. He would finish his late night shopping spree near the
back of the store and fill the empty crates and wait outside,
smoking a few cigarettes and sipping his whiskey in a coffee cup, in
preparation for Justin’s arrival out back.

Tonight Ralph sipped his last drop of whiskey, chewing on

a few choice pieces of ice and reaching for his desk drawer, he
withdrew two copies of the previous two Sunday handouts from
church. Damn, he thought, realizing that he forgot to put them in
the available crates downstairs. “I guess it don’t matter anyhow,”
he said, fanning himself with the sheets of paper. Maybe he won’t
come.
He stared at the pamphlets, waving them in the air and
flipping back and forth between the pages of the two pamphlets.
“Maybe I don’t need you anymore,” he said to the stapled sheets of
paper, as if they were a weapon or tool or magical device he
conjured and schemed to help regain his life. He gave them an
awkward look, the way a prisoner in a cheap movie might look
when he realizes his escape plan wasn’t fool proof or perhaps it
had been tried before without success. He looked around. “Now
what?” he asked aloud.
The every-other-Saturday night visits were important to
him, not so much because he secretly supplied Justin with living
essentials, but because he hoped that in time, they would eventually
bring a change in Justin’s life. Now the degree to which he
measured that change varied, depending upon the burdens he
carried in his heart. Some nights he wished they would end by way
of forgiveness and he often let his imagination run rampant with
ideas of how Justin might stop in and visit the store, freeing him
from the burdens of his guilt. On other nights he wished it would
end with news that Justin might have taken his own life.
Their routine was simple, delicate. Ralph would transfer
the groceries from the store cart to the individual crates, and then
set them outside in preparation for Justin’s arrival. He’d prop the
large steel door open with a brick and balancing himself with the
weight of the crates of food, he would deliver them, one box at a
time to the back of Justin’s truck. Justin, as always, would never get
out of the truck; he’d only sit in the cab and wait, smoking a
cigarette or two behind the large steering wheel of the ’52 and wait
until the procession was over. When Ralph was finished, he’d
normally smoke a cigarette himself, leaning on the rear fender-well
and neither a man would say a word, as if both had much to say,
but neither one knew which should begin.
The last thing Ralph would do before returning inside was
watch the taillights to his old pickup truck as they faded away into
the night, like two red eyes staring back at him, sneaking away into
the darkness of the town. Another cigarette would help to calm
Ralph’s nerves and his anxiety, and then he would escape, into his
own emotional prison, talking only to himself as he had done so
many nights before. The sound of the large steel door, slamming
shut behind him, would be the final note played in their ballad of
sadness and guilt. More often than not, Ralph would escape into
the grocery store, make his way up the winding stairs towards the
manager’s office and in there he would cry.

With no Justin tonight, Ralph had to change his solitary

routine and find another means to occupy his mind. He tucked the
church pamphlets back into his desk drawer and finished off
another drink. He found a weathered picture of him and Darla,
caught between the desk drawer and the interior to his desk; it was
worn around the edges and fading, with a few stains made from the
stacks of leftover carbon paper he forgot to throw away. She was
as lovely as he remembered her and seeing himself, smiling and
happy, appearing strong and confident with his sweetheart
wrapped around one arm, made him sad.
He remembered the grocery cart downstairs and knew he
had to put the food away, so it would not spoil or get trampled in
the morning by the stock boys. The last thing he did before leaving
the office was pray.
Dear God. Forgive me.
—15—

The heavy rains had become a trickle by the time Justin left
Reverend Polk at The People’s Assembly of God. He took his time
heading home, and like a child enjoying his first ride in the back of
his father’s truck, Justin was wide-eyed, staring at the town as
though it was the first time he ever noticed it, the first time he had
ever seen the houses with their large wrap around porches, the
buildings and the massive spreads of wheat and cotton. He passed
the I.F.A. Foodstore, and remembered his appointment with Ralph
Parison, the one he broke without notification, and he worried for
how Ralph might react. He noticed the flatbed truck was still
parked outside. Still there, he thought. But Justin didn’t stop. Instead
he kept driving past the grocery store, smoking a cigarette for the
moment while he circled the lot, trying to convince himself to stay
or go, and in his mind, he counted the items he had to replenish in
his head. I’ll get them later, he compromised with himself. “Sorry
Ralph,” he said, tossing the cigarette butt out the window.
When he arrived at the cabin, he parked his truck over a
weathered spot of wilted grass and mud and large collections of
rain water; he propped himself on his porch swing, kicking off his
muddy boots with each opposing foot and shook the rain from his
long greasy hair.
He thought about his food and said, “Shit,” worried that
he might not have enough living essentials to survive another two
weeks, especially his cigarettes, whiskey or worse, some toilet
paper. He watched the lightning as it lit up the darkened sky and
with each flash of lightning, he could see the folding swells of
storm clouds, rolling on top of one another like angels wrestling to
gain ground within the heavens.
Justin remembered a pack of cigarettes he had stashed in
the glove box to his truck, next to where he kept his flask of
whiskey and he walked barefoot through the mud and dead grass,
finding a smoke. It was still sprinkling, a steady drizzle of rain, and
he cupped his cigarette to keep it from getting soaked. When he
finished, he returned inside and prepped a mason jar with ice and
broke the seal on his last bottle of whiskey.
He looked around the interior of his cabin and for the first
time in many years, he didn’t want to be there, as if somehow
overnight, the cabin revealed its true self. A light had been turned
on somewhere within his mind and suddenly his world was odd
and uncomfortable. He didn’t feel safe and it wasn’t quite home. It
was lonely and secluded in the woods and Justin began to feel
disgusted with what he had become. His thoughts wandered
aimlessly and he tried to replay the conversations he had with
Reverend Polk earlier tonight. He laughed when he remembered
how foolish Pappy looked punching him in the face and then he
became upset with how much his face actually hurt. Old bastard, he
thought, rubbing his cheekbone.
He poured the whiskey in his glass and mixed the cubes in
a circular fashion, taking in the sweet smell of his poison. He
looked around his home, the dirty bed and sheets, the tracks of
mud upon the floor and he suddenly felt sorry for himself. He
paced the small interior of the cabin, looking over the used
furniture pieces as though they never quite belonged to him.
Nothing seemed to fit anymore. What the hell have you become? He
stared up and down and his eyes followed the interior of his home
until they reached the furthest corner from the front door. There,
sitting upon the windowsill was a copy of the Holy Bible and
sitting next to it was a dusty cigar box. Outside, it continued to
rain.
 Justin stared at the pair curiously—a bible and a cigar box
—gripping the glassed jar firmly within his hands and slowly,
moving one step at a time, he crept towards the windowsill.
Justin found himself alone in the corner of his home and
he considered the events of the night and running his hands across
the left breast pocket to his worn flannel shirt, he found a partially
drenched cigarette. He laughed, knowing that it had probably been
rotting away in his shirt for days, if not longer. He lit the cigarette,
tasting the staleness of the tobacco and blew smoke over the dusty
bible until he could make out the words, “King James.” The bible
had been sitting on that windowsill for several years and like many
nights before this, lost in pain, desperate and longing to end his
own life, Justin just stood over it and stared. Like a kid in a candy
store, unsure of which treat he should choose, Justin’s eyes stirred
left and then right. The cigar box or the bible? Life and good? Death
and evil? Life or death? The bible or the box?

The first two years of Justin’s life following the accident

were spent living under a bridge, like a beggar on the street. He
never ventured out beyond the perimeter of the city limits, not to
visit The Hawk’s Nest to watch the lovely blonde who would one
day captivate his attention and arousal, nor the church where
Reverend Polk resided. Justin felt God had betrayed him and he
never visited the I.F.A. Foodstore because he had no money and
no means to provide for himself. In a flash, on a bending road in a
small Texas town, he lost his life as he had known it and woke up
three days later in a hospital, somewhere in the mental realm
between life and death, unsure of what he would become if he
chose to move forward and unsure of where he might go, should
he take his own life.
It wasn’t until two years later that Justin came to occupy
the cabin that had become his prison cell. Because of his own
remorse for what he had done to affect Justin’s life, Ralph Winslow
Parison intervened in a guilty attempt at saving his own soul. He
began delivering small crates of food to the bridge, at night,
knowing Justin wouldn’t take them in the daylight, in the presence
of the towns folk. Ralph initiated the act, never asking for
permission to help, but instead delivered the crates of food, setting
them on the edge of the road where he would wait, like a visitor in
a zoo hoping to catch a glimpse of a wild animal as it feasts. Ralph
would wait and then Justin would come out and the two would
talk. No one knows for sure what the two men discussed in those
early years, but Ralph spent much of his spare time in the late
hours of the night, sitting on a broken guard-rail, talking with
Justin. Ralph still maintained his belief in God and with the ideal of
eternal salvation and, some might say, he was working to perform
the duties that might warrant his forgiveness—a means to relieve
the burdens of his soul.
Mr. Parison owned several properties off the lake and after
two years of visiting the bridge where Justin lost his life as he knew
it, Ralph offered him a place to stay, under the conditions that he
would work to help maintain the cabin properties. No one knew
for sure whether Justin actually performed any work on the
cottages but in exchange for the supposed service, Ralph began
delivering those same crates of food to the cabin now occupied by
Justin.
The broken house off the lake had become Justin’s home,
a living cemetery for the walking dead. After six months of
delivering the food like an errand boy, Ralph reached a point where
he could no longer suffer the personal anguish and turmoil of
seeing Justin’s face and how he lived and what he had become. The
burden of knowing that his accident with Justin and his family, and
the loss suffered in their death was the cause for what Justin had
become was too much for Ralph to take. He showed up one day
and he didn’t say much at all. He walked around the cabin, as if he
were an inspector and then placed the crates of food on the porch
close to Justin’s swing and without hesitation he explained that if
Justin wanted the items—his food, the whiskey and cigarettes, his
toiletries—he would have to start picking them up for himself.
“I’m tired,” was how Ralph put it. Before Justin had an
opportunity to question the means by which he would pick up his
food, Ralph was already tossing him the keys to his once
prospective project in that 1952 Chevrolet pickup truck. Ralph
said, “It’s yours,” before walking away, never looking back.
Ralph Parison walked home, never to return to his cabin
properties. He walked the five mile stretch through wooded
flatlands back towards the main road and another seven miles into
town before arriving at his home—a home he worked and built in
hopes of providing a life to one Darla Presley. Because of the hurt
that weighed heavy on his heart, he cried the entire way home. No
one stopped to offer him a ride.
When Justin went to inspect the newly acquired truck he
found on the passenger side of the large bench seat, a cigar box
and a folded sheet of paper sticking out which read, ‘Forgive me.’
It was the same cigar box that still occupied the dusty spot on the
windowsill next to the King James Version of the Holy Bible given
to him years ago by Reverend Polk.

Justin opened the cigar box and inside, he found the

weathered revolver which Ralph had left inside the cab of the
truck, along with the apologetic note, frayed now along the edges.
He inhaled and blew cigarette smoke, as if he were trying to distort
his vision of the weapon and carefully, he lifted the gun up and out
of the cardboard box and held it in his hand, staring at it and
feeling the weight and the power within his grip. This could end it all,
he thought. He flicked some ash from the end of his stale cigarette,
still juggling the glass of whiskey in his other hand. He tucked the
glass beneath one arm and took one long inhale of the smoke
before dropping the cigarette to the ground. He watched it fall and
it appeared to move in slow-motion, as though the world had
suddenly stopped spinning. Justin became dizzy and lightheaded
and he was suddenly afraid of himself.
 Ripples in the pond, replayed within his mind. In his anxiety
Justin turned, looking around the cabin as though he were being
watched. Somewhere in the midst of the stormy flashes of lightning
outside and the lingering cloud of cigarette smoke inside, he saw
what he thought was the image of Reverend Polk staring at him
from the screened doorway and Justin felt ashamed and more
frightened.
Suddenly, the weight of being alone began to overpower
him. He began to feel scared of himself and he didn’t want to be
alone and he lost his willingness to drink. He stared at the gun a
moment longer, holding it, gripping the handle and setting his
finger carefully around the trigger. He set the glass upon the
ground near his feet and he held the gun to his head. You have a
choice son.
What would it take? One pull of the trigger and it would all
be over, no more loss, no more hurt, no more anguish and no
more fear of living the life of a bitter, decaying man. He held his
breath, and in his mind, he envisioned himself, pulling the trigger
and watching as blood sprayed the cracked leather recliner, his
body dropping to the ground, lifeless, dead, his soul fading away
into the ground towards Hell. How long would his body lay dead
upon the ground? Who would find him? Who would care enough
to check to see if he were alive? He thought of Tessa Jameson and
how she might react. Would she cry? Would she miss him? Would
he ever be missed as much as he missed Christy and their son?
What does a whore know about love?
Tears began to swell in his eyes and they trickled down his
face disappearing within his dirty beard and he cried as he thought
about his son. His name was John Allen Bower, and together
Christy and he liked to call him Johnny. He was the spitting image
of his father, and realizing how desperate and pitiful his existence
had become, Justin cried harder. And through his blurred vision
Justin noticed the small toy that belonged to his son, set upon the
small kitchen table.
 “I was your superhero,” Justin said between heavy sobs,
the cold rusted barrel still set upon the side of his head. Becoming
lightheaded Justin fell to his knees, still gripping the weapon firmly
to his head. “Why the hell did you have to die?” he asked aloud to
the lonely quiet of the cabin. “Why didn’t I die with you?” he said
addressing the small toy. “God, I’m sorry son.”
Do it Justin, a voice whispered within his mind as if it were
dragged into his cabin with the winds. Do it. First it was one and
then another and before he realized what was happening, he was
bombarded with voices of his past, whispers of the moment and
silent cries to end the pain:
Pull the trigger. End the pain. I know love Justin. You
know shit. Sweetie, it looks like it’s gonna rain really hard. Sweetie!
It’s only rain. Do it Justin. It’s only rain. We’ll be fine. Do it! I
promise. Ripples in the pond. I’m not a whore. Forgive me. Pull
the trigger. You have a choice son. I was your superhero! Say my
name. Superhero! Life or death. What’s my name? Good or evil.
What’s my name? Pull the trigger. Say my name. I’m lost. Time to
die. End the pain. Pull the trigger. I forgive you…
He held the gun to his head and screamed his own name,
“Justin!” to silence the voices in his head. He pulled the trigger and
fell to the floor. Lightning flashed, the thunder rumbled outside
and the whispers ceased to exist. All that remained was silence.
When the gun hit the ground it made a hollow thud upon
the wooden flooring and the sound seemed to replicate within his
body. Justin looked to his side and he found the glass of whiskey.
Is this it, he thought? Is this all there is?
He couldn’t move. He was lifeless and numb despite being
alive. He stared at the glass and then he looked to the gun which
now lay beside him on the ground. “It’s over,” he said. He turned
his head and followed the interior to his home until his eyes found
the small toy that belonged to little Johnny. “It’s over.”
Justin lifted himself off the floor and he stood bringing the
glass of whiskey up with him. He stared at it and smelled it and
then he threw it across the room and it crashed against the stainless
steel sink and countertop, shattering into many small pieces. He
became dizzy and he worked to keep his balance, falling backwards
upon the leather recliner and there he hid his eyes in shame, from
the sight of his son’s toy and he wept.
Outside, the sprinkles gave way to heavier rains. The
thunder began to rumble again, shaking the window panes within
the cabin and the lightning lit up the darkened sky. The winds
picked up again and the sound of his screened door, slamming
against the interior wall to his cabin frightened him, snapping him
back to reality. Justin was alone and hurt and he was ashamed of
himself for holding the gun to his head and he stared at it upon the
floor. Of all the years he contemplated death, his own demise,
poison by way of alcohol, tonight, holding the barrel to his head
Justin was worried that his son might actually have seen him. He
was afraid that somehow, caught and carried within the winds were
the soul of his dead wife Christy and his son, Johnny. Justin felt as
if they had witnessed what he had become. He reached for the toy,
the small action figure, the super hero, and he held it like a father
might hold a newborn baby. “I’m sorry,” he said addressing the
spirit of the son who once adored him. “Daddy's so sorry.” Justin
held it, rubbing it clean with his thumb and he cried. He held the
toy that entire night and slept with it on the cracked leather
recliner, afraid that he might not wake up in the morning.
The clouds remained heavy and dark and the sun was not
able to penetrate its thickness in the morning nor could it subdue
the hurt within Justin’s heart. It would rain this way for the next six
days.
—16—

Tessa Jameson spent the next few nights at home,

completely alone with only her stacked series of romance novels, a
few bottles of cheap dime-store wine, and her smokes—store-
bought and her personally hand-rolled joints—weathering the
storm as it rolled across the tiny west Texas town of Seymour. She
called in to work, telling her co-workers, Carl Lee and Peggy, only
that she didn’t feel up to the pain that came with dealing with
drunken lovers. She wasn’t in the mood, she said. In her years
spent working at The Hawk’s Nest, she seldom did take time off
for herself and although she didn’t care for the prospect of growing
old as nothing more than a barmaid princess, she always felt
inclined to keep herself relatively busy between shifts at work, so as
not to consider her melancholic destiny. This way, she only had to
deal with the sadness of being unloved, while she was home,
hidden secretly within the confines of her privately secluded world,
never having to reveal her pain in the open forum of the public
masses. She was fully aware of what the town thought of her. And
as many times as she heard someone whisper or reference her
name in comparison to one who has had many lovers, it hurt her
only on rainy days like this one, and the days that would soon
come, where she had only her imagination to keep her company.
She skimmed through the pages of her timeless romance
novels as she had done night and night before. In between books
or the more intense sexual moments of the storyline she would
pause to enjoy a glass of wine and a smoke on her balcony and
close her eyes, enjoying the smells of the rain and the moment of
literary romance. She chose to relax with her feet propped up on
her wicker patio furniture, smoking that cigarette and listening to
the rumble of the thunder above, the sounds of the rains as they
passed and the feel of the winds as it passed over and around the
sexy curvature of her body underneath her skimpy evening attire.
She ran one hand up the opposing arm, with her eyes closed she
imagined it to be the touch of Justin Bower; then, just as her
fingers ran over the round scab that formed below her elbow, it
angered her, as if somehow Trey Phillips interrupted her
imaginations. “Asshole,” she said.
She picked up another book that she found lying across a
wicker end-table and she flicked the cigarette over the balcony.
Underneath the end table was a small antique jewelry box and
inside was her stash of marijuana. She was careful to roll the joint,
squeezing firmly to the ends and she sat back, lighting the hand-
rolled joint, and she skimmed through the pages in her smut novel.
On the front cover was a pathetic display of a lovely young maiden,
with her strong lover crouching over her, displaying the massive
strength in his back muscles. They were lying together on a sandy
beach and her hair was spread across the top cover of the book, to
signify the breadth of the ocean. “Whatever,” Tessa said, between
puffs on her joint. She coughed as she tried to contain her laughter.
To occupy the rainy days, she finished a few books which
either put her in a deeply somber mood because of the sadness of
being alone or it aroused her so intently that she had to keep
moving to help avoid the urgency to rub herself for hours. She
vacuumed the small apartment a few times to make sure it was
absolutely clean, working diligently to get the horizontal and
vertical lines in the carpet as if it were the outfield grass of a major
league baseball field. She rearranged her romance novels until they
were alphabetically listed by author along one of the walls in her
living area. In her bedroom, she arranged the smut novels in the
same manner, only this time listing them by title.
She dusted picture frames and the end tables in the living room and
washed and then re-washed the assortment of mismatched dishes
in her pantries. She made sure every painting and picture that hung
upon her walls were straight and level and then she scrubbed the
bathroom sink and her beloved bathtub. Outside, the storm raged
on, blowing steady winds and rains. This would be her routine for
the next three days—wine, marijuana, cleaning and masturbation.
Come the morning of the fifth consecutive day of rain,
Tessa had reached the point where she had enough of the solitude
of her small home and literary romance, so she dressed, putting on
a faded pair of denim jeans that were perfectly fitted to her
voluptuous bottom, a pair of brown leather boots and a button up
shirt that was small and fitted around her waistline. She put on her
make-up and did her best to fix her hair, though with the weather
outside, it mattered very little. She pulled it up and out of her face,
tying it together with an elastic band and bow behind her head. She
grabbed a light coat and an umbrella and headed out.

Pappy was admiring the rains that began to flood the top
layer of soil around the perimeter of his church lawns from the
open area of the church garage. He was smiling and he was pleased
with the idea of how much money the church could save by not
having to water so often to keep the lawns so green. Behind him,
Reverend Polk was struggling to hold the small ivory dominoes
with his palms and fingertips. Mr. Polk was trying to hold them the
“right way” as Mr. Pappy put it. When he finally had one set placed
in his palms, he lost his grip on the other hand and his dominoes
fell to the table; Pappy acted as though he didn’t notice the pieces
as they fell upon the table. He didn’t care to cheat his boss.
“You know, you can just line them up in front of you on
the tabletop if you want, boss,” Pappy said. So we can play some time
today.
“I can do this,” Polk said, concentrating so hard he was
biting his bottom lip.
 “How long you think the rains gonna come down
Reverend?” Pappy asked. He looked back over his shoulder to
watch Polk struggling to manage the ivory pieces. ‘Cause I can’t take
too many more days of this, he thought.
“Only God knows Pappy. Only God knows. Besides, it’s
nice to just sit still for a moment and enjoy life.”
“Uh huh,” Pappy said.
Reverend Polk didn’t care too much for playing dominoes
and by this time he had already spent four consecutive days
watching recorded boxing matches in Pappy’s one room suite, and
playing cards and bones, as Pappy referred to them, in the garage to
help occupy their time as the rains had imprisoned them to their
homes. Pappy was reluctant to ask his Pastor to join him in many
games, considering many men of the ministry felt the leisurely
pastime was nothing more than a game for sinners. Reverend Polk
however didn’t share the same feelings; he considered the games
harmless, as long as you kept any form of gambling out of the
activities. To Polk, they were only games. Pappy liked that about
him.
Pappy struggled all morning, not to mention the past five
days, to come to terms with the fiasco that took place between him
and Justin the other night. “I’m sorry boss,” Pappy said directing
his attention towards the Pastor, then down towards his muddy
boots. “For what happened the other night downstairs. With that
young man.”
Still struggling to take hold of his dominoes, Polk shrugged
away his apology and said, “As much as I hate to say it. I think he
needed it.”
Pappy stood and began pacing back and forth along the
wet concrete in the garage, fighting the urge to speak his own
opinions on the matter. And as much as he agreed it needed to be
done, Pappy still felt betrayed and hurt for how he was thrown out
into the rain.
 “Well how come you didn’t tell me he was the one boss?”
“Huh? Well, before I could explain anything, you had
already punched him in the face,” Polk said.
Pappy rubbed his bald head and said, “He sure was upset. I
never meant to hit him in the first place, honest I didn’t.” Should of
hit him harder.
Pappy slapped at collected pools of water in the garage
with his feet, side to side, watching the splashes and the droplets of
water as they sprayed towards the lawn. “What I don’t understand
though, is why you let him come into the church and curse the way
he did.”
Reverend Polk gave up on his attempt at holding the bones
the way Pappy did and he began setting them up, one by one, on
the table before him in a horizontal line. He knew what Pappy
really wanted to know was why he was thrown out instead of
Justin. There was more to it than he thought he should or could
explain.
“The way I see it is like this,” Polk said. “If we forget the
reason why we are here is to save the souls of those who are lost,
and instead tend only to our own people, then what good are we
really serving the Lord’s ministry? Think about it Pappy, the
healthy have no need of a doctor, do they?
“And I know I had no place to curse like that. Telling you
to get the, you know what out of here. Those called to the ministry
should know better. I do and I know I was wrong. I was just tryin’
to make a point, to him, not you.”
Reverend Polk thought a lot of that night the past five
days, stuck within the church property, listening to Pappy’s stories
and watching recorded boxing matches on television. He got used
to nodding “yes” a lot, though honestly, he wasn’t always paying
attention to what Pappy had to say. His thoughts were bent upon
Justin.
 “Something just come to me. I knew if I chose to defend
you that night, in his eyes, it would have been the same as if I
chose the church and all its holiness,” Polk said, using his fingers to
make imaginary quotation marks, “above tryin’ to save his soul.
Even if we were right to throw him out that night. Even if it would
have been justified Pappy, we would have lost him. Forever.”
Reverend Polk rose to his feet. “All the prayin’, all these years,
would have been for nothin’.”
“I s’pose you right boss. But it did feel good to hit him, if
only once,” Pappy said with a smile, like a child who might have
been caught stealing candy from a jar.
“I’m worried about that boy,” Polk said, disregarding
Pappy’s last comment. “I got the gumption to go down to that
cabin today and check on ole’ Justin. You know, make sure he’s
okay and all.”
“Check on him? You even know which one he lives in?”
Pappy asked. “From what I hear, no one really knows where he
lives.”
“No,” Polk answered. “Maybe I don’t. Most people don’t
know where he lives; they only know more or less where he lives.
But I know just the man who does,” Polk said, shifting his
thoughts towards Ralph Parison.
Pappy stood to ponder on Polk’s idea and watched the rain
as it continued to pour from under the protection of their garage.
He admired for the moment the collections of water, as they
formed in the low lying areas of the church lawn. He imagined the
heavy work that would come from such enduring rains. More
importantly, he was pleased with the newness and strength of life
in the church grounds that was to come.
Reverend Polk said he was bored and tired of playing
dominoes and he retired upstairs, to his home to take a nap or read
or write.
“Okay boss,” Mr. Pappy said. “I’ll clean up.”
 Reverend Polk made his way upstairs, hurrying to shield
himself from the onslaught of rain. When he got inside, he tossed
his shoes to the ground by the door, and began working to
unbutton his white dress shirt, loosening them from his dress
slacks. Not a moment after he set his glasses down upon his
kitchen table, he heard the heavy sounds of Mr. Pappy coming up
the wooden stairs. He heard him slip as he wound his way up the
stairs, then he heard him curse. “Goddammit!” It was immediately
followed by a loud, “Oh, forgive me.”
“What is it Pappy?” Polk asked, adjusting his eyes to his
friend as he barged through the door. “Uh, your boots Pappy!”
“Oh, sorry boss,” Pappy said, letting his feet slide from out
of the muddy boots.
Lord his feet as dirty as his boots, Polk thought, as he watched
Mr. Pappy trot over towards his large living room window.
“This must be your week to save the lost boss,” Pappy
said.
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Come see,” Pappy said tapping the large plate window
with a long bony finger.
Polk eased over towards Pappy, picking up his glasses as he
passed the kitchen table and to his surprise, he caught the blurry
glimpse of what appeared to be the lovely blonde woman who
worked at The Hawk’s Nest, tip-toeing around and through the
collected pools of rainwater as she made her way towards the back
of the church property. She was cautiously acknowledging her
surroundings, trying to avoid the elements of the rains from
beneath her umbrella.
“What in God’s creation?” Polk said.
“Well boss,” Pappy said, scratching his bald head. “It’s a
woman.”
“I know it’s a woman Mr. Pappy. What I don’t know is
why she’s here.”
Pappy set one hand upon Polk’s shoulder and reassuringly
said, “Well whatever the reason boss, I promise I won’t punch this
one in the face.” He laughed at his own joke.
Upon realization that the lovely blonde was Tessa Jameson,
Reverend Polk began feeling somewhat afraid, timid. A nervous
tension began to settle within his gut. The last time that lovely
blonde visited the church was close to six years ago, just after
Justin’s accident. Now here she was, just days after he taunted
Justin to make a decision on whether he was going to kill himself
or decide to move forward. And that scared him.
What news could she be carrying behind the long strands
of dirty blond hair or what truth could she be hiding beneath her
umbrella? What would make her come out in the rains in the
middle of the work week? These are points Reverend Polk tried to
rationalize with himself before she found her way to the base of his
house.
“You want me to take care of this boss?”
“Reverend Polk said, “Oh God,” beneath his breath, too
faint for Mr. Pappy to hear him. “Huh? No, no,” Polk said. “We
just need to find out what she wants.”
“We or me? ‘Cause I don’t know her,” Pappy said.
Reverend Polk bit his thumbnail and said, “Send her up.”
“Up? Up here?” Pappy asked. The concern for his Pastor’s
reputation wore heavy on his face. “Up here? You sure you want
her up here boss?” He looked around waving his finger like a
wand, “In your home?”
“Yes,” Polk said, involuntarily checking the front and back
pockets of his pants as well as intermittently touching the empty
breast pocket on his shirt as if he was searching for something he
lost. “Yes. Let me tidy up the place a bit. Stall her will you?”
“But boss it’s raining outside.”
 “Huh? Oh yes, it is, isn’t it?” Polk said again, resting one
hand upon the empty breast pocket. “Very well then, I’m coming
out.”
“You best be careful,” Pappy said. “I hear she has evil
powers that make men do things she wants.”
“Pappy that isn’t true. She’s just a woman.”
Pappy shrugged, acknowledging his boss’s request and led
the way for the two men outside. When he reached the bottom of
the wooden stairway, Tessa Jameson was standing in the rain,
shielding herself and her intentions from beneath her umbrella and
the steady sheets of rain. She was confident in her intentions and
she stood patiently, waiting for a response from the bald-headed
black man who came out to greet her.
“Excuse me, is Reverend Polk available?” a soft voice
asked from beneath the umbrella.
“Uh, yes’m. He’s coming out right behind me,” Pappy said
pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. When he looked back,
Reverend Polk was no where to be found. He nodded his bald wet
head and tipped her an imaginary hat as he made his way past her.
Well he was.
“Thank-you.” Pappy never heard her, or at least he did not
acknowledge her. He marched away through the mud and puddles
of water and escaped into his small one-room palace, looking back
to check Tessa out just before closing the door to his home. Evil
powers, he thought.
—17—

Reverend Polk looked around his home, wanting to make

sure all was neat and orderly and seemingly presentable before
asking Tessa Jameson upstairs. He did not want to give the
impression that he was a slob in his private life, always aware of
people’s tendencies to judge the representatives of the church. His
eyes followed the entire perimeter of his home, and he nodded,
pleased with his quick handy work and in a manner of checking off
items on a to-do list with his fingers, he said aloud, “Okay, I’m
ready.” Then he looked down, realizing he was still half dressed.
“Oh my.”
He moved quickly to button up his shirt and began tucking
in the shirt tail, working his way from the back of his pants towards
the front. He ran back to his bed and found his slippers and then
hurried back towards the front door. When he reached the front
door, he took in a breath and slowly exhaled. Relax, he thought.
“Everything’s gonna be alright.”
He opened the door and found she was still waiting, as
though he hoped she might leave if left to wait too long in the rain.
He cleared his throat to get her attention and when her eyes found
him, he waved her up from beneath the protection of a small
awning above his deck.
Tessa made her way across the drenched soil and skipped
up the small flight of wooden stairs. Polk held open the door,
adjusting his shirt into and around his heavy waistline and
nervously checked his pockets again.
 Tessa shook off the rain from her umbrella and placed it
on the deck floor just outside the doorway, as Polk waited patiently
for her to enter his house.
She was cordial and proper, following his lead and nod of
the head, as if to say, come in.
“Thank-you,” she said.
Polk watched her as she made her way into the main foyer
of his small garage apartment home. He took in a breath and
followed behind her, but not before taking several more peeks
outside to inspect the area as if he were being watched. Upon
realization that he was acting overly paranoid and silly, he chuckled
to himself and went in to join her.
“Is something funny Mister Polk?” Tessa asked, looking
herself over to make sure she wasn’t revealing any body parts.
“No. No,” Polk said trying to convince himself. “Mr.
Pappy was acting silly outside,” he said lying, directing her attention
towards the door.
Tessa was aware of his nervousness. She completely
understood that men of his stature and position within the
community would rather not be seen in her company, even if his
position entitled him to certain rights to do so. Gossip was nothing
new to her and over the years she had become accustomed to the
whispers behind her back; she worried more about how he felt
with her barging in on his private life in the midst of such weather.
“Would you rather we met elsewhere Pastor,” she asked.
Reverend? Sir?
“Huh? No,” Polk said, snapping back to reality. “No
sweetie. This is fine. Please have a seat,” he said directing her away
from his bed and the area where he slept and more towards the
kitchen table.
 He was polite enough to wait for her to take her place
across from him. He sat, adjusting himself cautiously as not to
offend her in any manner nor give away any further signs of
discomfort.
Tessa was proper in return, easing herself slowly into place.
She kept her head down and her eyes out of direct view, sliding her
chair neatly beneath her body. She crossed one foot over the other
and folded her hands neatly across her lap. This is how we did it in
Bible school, she thought.
Polk waited for her to appear comfortable before he began.
Outside, it continued to rain.
“What can I do for you today?” Oh Lord that’s not what I
meant. “What brings you out in this awful weather?”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Tessa said. “I rather enjoy rainy days
Pastor.” Sir. Reverend? “Gives me time to myself; time to be quiet.
Alone.”
Polk looked at her curiously and he noticed how she
wouldn’t make direct eye contact as she referenced the word alone.
It appeared as though the word carried a heavy weight on her.
This was not their first encounter, but it was the first time
Reverend Polk recognized her natural beauty. To him she was
symbolic, picturesque, a beauty queen trapped within tattered
clothing, handed down from one broken spirit to another and
enclosed within the body of poor white trash.
She is lovely Justin, Polk thought to himself.
“I like to read and sometimes I write in a journal,” she said.
“I keep a diary. I have kept one since I was a young child.”
Polk referenced some of his own personal writings,
showing her the vast arrangement of compositions books he had
collected over the years spent serving in the ministry. This
expression helped to break the tension between the two, allowing
them both to open up and relax, breaking the invisible walls of
discomfort.
There was a wide assortment of books and journals and
various types of notebooks in Reverend Polk’s house. There were
small books and larger ones, thick ones and on most, the edges
appeared frayed and worn. The evident wear on their bindings
displayed the apparent need and desire to go back and review his
thoughts time and time again.
“On days like this, when it’s too ugly outside to do
anything or go anywhere, I write,” she continued. “This is when I
write the most actually. I have come to know and understand and
appreciate the quiet. I used to be afraid of the dark and of being
alone. I’ve been alone so long you see?” she said, hiding her eyes
again behind her strands of wet curly hair.
“I understand,” Polk said. “I have a habit of sleeping with
more light on than necessary.”
“My writing helps to relieve the strain of being alone. It
helps me through the loneliness,” she said.
“Most of my writing is for study and growth. I like to
meditate on certain passages within the Bible and go back and write
my thoughts on the idea,” Polk said.
“My Romance novels help fill the void of loneliness too,”
Tessa said, still masking her face.
Oh boy, Polk thought. “Well there’s no harm in reading a
few love books,” Polk said. Love books? Personally he didn’t care for
them and remembered at that moment how he gave a sermon
once, condemning the act of reading such smut, as he referred to it.
“No?” she asked. Please don’t have this conversation Tessa.
“That’s not the response I would have expected from you Mr.
Polk. Being a man of God and all, I would have suspected you’d be
the first to condemn it.”
 This was not the time to push her away, so he lied. “No
sweetie. I mean, it beats wandering the streets trying to find the
wrong man for the sake of being alone.” He was folding his hands
in and out of his lap. “You know what I mean,” he finished.
“I know what a lot of people think about me, but I have to
tell you Mr. Polk, I am not diseased.”
“Diseased?”
“I’m not a dirty woman Mr. Polk,” she said.
“What in God’s creation would make you say a thing like
that child?” he asked.
“You don’t have to lie,” she said, staring into his eyes,
noticing the uneasiness of her presence in his face. “I appreciate
you being so kind, but it’s okay, honestly.”
“I’m not lying sweetie, I assure you.” I assure you I don’t want
to have this conversation.
“Really, it’s okay. I just wanted you to know that I
appreciate you letting me come up here like this. I’m not diseased
and I wouldn’t purposely do anything to hurt you or put you in an
awkward position with the church members.”
“It’s okay, I promise,” Polk said, trying to reassure her in
his obvious lie.
She began to adjust herself in the chair and said, “Anyhow,
I’m not here for me. It’s Justin.”
“Justin?” Oh Lord, Polk thought.
“Yes. I’m concerned about him. He came by the bar
Saturday night and he started to get loud. I think I embarrassed
him.”
It was Saturday evening that Justin stormed into the church
and fought with Mr. Pappy and Reverend Polk was calculating the
time in his head. “You said he came by Saturday night?” Polk
asked.
 “He ran out, actually,” she said.
“Ran?” Reverend Polk was trying to piece the story
together in his head. “What do you mean, he ran out? What
happened?”
“Yes. Anyhow, like I was saying, I’m not diseased Mr.
Polk. I know what people say about me and what they think, but if
they only knew what kind of person I really am, they might not
treat me so badly.”
“Saturday night,” Polk said, interrupting her story again.
“He came by here Saturday night.”
“Here?” Tessa asked.
“Yes, here to the church,” Polk said, not trying to
reference his house.
“And what happened to him?” Tessa asked.
Polk thought about the fight between Justin and Pappy and
although neither was seriously hurt, he immediately became
concerned with Justin’s overall safety. What might have happened
to him when he left? Should he have stayed up with him? Seen him
home? Asked him to stay? He began to feel remorseful for being so
unsubtle about his criticism of how Justin should make the choice
to move on or simply end his life.
“Mr. Polk?” she asked. “What happened? What made him
stop by here? Is he okay? Did he say anything? Did he mention
anything? I’m very concerned about him Reverend. Please tell me
something.”
“Well, he was drunk,” Polk said, trying to calculate his
answers within his mind.
“Yeah, he seemed pretty drunk when he left,” Tessa said.
“And he always comes in the same and leaves the same. Drunk, but
the same. My concern was for how he left.”
Polk leaned in on the table, placing both hands where she
could see them, hoping that simple act might reveal his true
concern and somehow ease the tension of the moment, for both of
them.
“What happened? I take it you spoke to him that night.
Did he say anything that sounded unusual?”
“Yeah,” Tessa said. “For a moment. I mean, we rarely
speak. He doesn’t speak to anyone, you know that.”
“Yes, I do,” Polk said. He looked at her and her eyes began
to glaze over. “Please continue sweetie. Please.”
“Well he started acting strange, more so than he always
does and he got upset when I was talking to him.”
“What did you say to him,” Polk asked.
“Nothing offensive. I tried to make him talk to me. I tried
to make him say my name.”
“Your name?” Polk asked.
“It’s just that, for so long, we’ve seemed to play this game
where he watched me and I watched him but neither one of us ever
looked at one another,” she said. “I just wanted him to tell me. I
wanted to make him say it.” She started, pausing a moment as if to
recap the night within her mind. “Then I was burnt by this asshole
named Trey Phillips and Justin sort of stood up for me.”
Reverend Polk was expressionless and Tessa didn’t know
what to say. “I didn’t mean asshole.” Oh God I just cussed at the
preacher, she thought. “Reverend, I’m sorry,” she started.
“Say what?” he asked.
“Asshole. Actually he is an asshole.”
“Huh?”
“Trey Phillips. He burned me,” Tessa said, showing him
the burnt skin on her forearm.
“You wanted him to say your name?” Then Polk began to
understand. Right before his eyes he witnessed a transformation in
the woman the town had dubbed whore, and she didn’t seem so
different or as horrid as the rumors made her out to appear, but
instead she seemed to project a glimpse of her true self and it was
lovely. Now sitting across from him was a sincere young lady
declaring her love to the only other person who might understand
her heart. She was radiant and strong, not wicked or devouring and
he didn’t see in her any glimpse of the home wrecker some had
said she was. He didn’t see a long legged siren, who worked her
spells to lure husbands into her trap, only to use them and throw
them away along with any remnants of their marriages or home life.
Reverend Polk took a chance and asked her, “Do you love him?”
Tessa Jameson felt relieved, not so much in the gesture or
inquiry, but because she felt as though someone cared enough to
understand or listen. She began to cry. “I don’t know what you
want me to say.”
“It’s okay Tessa. I never once implied you were anything
more than who you are right now. And yes, people do talk, the
same as they talk about me or Justin or anyone else they can find to
occupy their time. It’s the unpleasant nature of people.”
She began to nibble and bite down on her bottom lip. “Do
you have any idea how that feels?”
“I can’t say I’ve been in your shoes,” he said.
“Do you know what it feels like to want to be loved, and to
search for it, only to find it in the form of sex or sexual favors? To
know that you can’t be held,” she said between sobs, wrapping her
arms around herself, “unless you return some sexual favor? To lay
your head down every night, wishing you could give your heart to
someone, just one person, because inside you know there is so
much of yourself you can give and offer?” Streams of tears began
to trickle down the sides of her face and she worked quickly to
remove them. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling embarrassed for her
antics.
Polk reached across the small table, lifting some tissue
from a small knitted tissue box made by one of the ladies in the
church congregation and he realized then that he did understand,
partly. He knew of a woman in his church congregation that may
have felt the same way towards him as Tessa was feeling towards
Justin and up until this moment he never considered what his
actions were doing to her.
Reverend Polk’s wife had been dead for many years now
and since her departure, Mr. Polk’s spirit for life diminished with
each passing year. No one said anything to him for becoming so
reclusive and withdrawing from the world, partly because he was a
man of the cloth and people were inclined to believe that as such,
he would come to terms with the loss of his wife the way God
“intended” as if he were somehow above remorse and pain. Even
still, no one intervened when his lifestyle became more and more
private and withdrawn because no one in the community felt they
had the right to tell a man of God how to live.
Holding the embroidered tissue box in his hands, Reverend
Polk’s thoughts shifted to a church member—Ms. Beverly
Ellsworth. She was widowed some five years and unlike Polk, she
accepted her husband’s death as part of the natural course of life.
She grieved, mourned and then appreciating her life, she moved
on, ultimately revealing her long time desire to be with her Pastor
—Reverend Hillard Ray Polk.
She was not quiet about her infatuations and she asked him
to join her on many afternoon picnics only to be given an
apologetic “no thank-you” from her Pastor. When he declined each
invitation she joined him anyhow, only from a distance at the same
park every week after church service.
He set the tissue down in front of her and he reached for
her hands and took them in his, letting them rest upon his palms,
comforting her as he began to speak.
The two were silent with only the intermittent sounds of
the rains and the winds between them and together they paused to
consider the moment. Her hands remained still within his, white
skin set on top of black and together they seemed to understand
one another.
“No. I can’t say I know what that’s like, but I can say this,”
Reverend Polk started again. “I have always been judged by the
color of my skin, without regard of my service to the Lord’s
ministry. I preach unbiased love and compassion only to not always
get it in return. I have preached love with a true heart, without
regard to a person’s look or outer beauty but instead I tell the
people of my church to look inside at the heart of a person, only to
be treated unfairly because I’ve always been nothing but a poor
black man in a predominately white town.”
He felt her grip tighten around his weathered hands and
for a brief moment he felt her touch the calluses as if to judge the
validity and adversity suffered within his life.
“And what would you say about someone like me, Mr.
Polk?” she asked. “Reverend Polk,” she corrected herself. “A town
whore. What do you see when you look at me?”
“I see a woman in love,” he said looking into her eyes with
a smile. “I know the word of God and I know love when I see it.
And I don’t mean goose-bumps and infatuation; I mean honest,
true love. Many people Ms. Tessa confuse love with an emotion.
And I know that the most powerful sense of love is the emotional
aspect, but the true meaning of love goes way beyond the good
feelings we get when we see something we like. It goes way beyond
the feeling a boy or girl might get on their first kiss.”
Reverend Polk let his grip tighten for a moment, and then
he released the pressure of his grasp, letting her know he was
pulling away. He stood and said, “Love is service. Love is unselfish
and love is not proud nor does it boast. That’s from the Holy
Bible,” he said nodding his head in a subtle yes-like fashion. “It’s
simply duty to another person, more so than to yourself. It’s
commitment and it’s honor,” he said.
“I’m worried about him Mr. Polk.”
“You love him don’t you?” Polk asked, standing in the
middle of his living area. “It’s okay to say it; you might feel better if
you did.”
“My heart has skipped a beat everyday since I met him Mr.
Polk.” Oh don’t be pathetic Tessa, she said to herself. “What I mean is,
my heart broke when I learned of his loss. It broke again when I
learned that his son had passed. And I lose a little more every time
I see him.”
“Love is the most unselfish act a person can perform for
another individual,” Polk said.
She began to sob harder, after holding in her emotions for
so long, trying to hide her feelings from the world, the critical
world of the town’s church folk and the hypocritical world within
The Hawk’s Nest. She sat and she cried.
“You know it’s okay to admit it. I believe you should
confess such a thing. Just take in a breath and say that you love
him.”
Polk got up and walked towards her and he set one hand
atop the small kitchen table, and helped himself to the ground,
setting himself beside her on one knee. He took one of her hands
in his and asked again, looking right into her eyes. “You love him?”
“Yes!” Tessa said in a shout between her tears. “Yes, I do!”
And to both Tessa and Polk’s surprise, in barged Mr.
Pappy, catching only the tail end of their conversation and the
words, I do, as they spilt from Tessa’s mouth, down to his Pastor,
who was bent over on one knee. “Oh my God. I’m too late!”
Tessa looked to Polk and Reverend Polk then looked
towards Tessa and by the time they realized what Pappy was
implying, he was already barging towards them, waving his
objection with both hands in the air.
“I can’t allow this!” Pappy said. “I don’t know what’s going
on here boss, but I can’t allow this! Not her!”
“What in God’s creation are you talkin’ about Pappy?”
Polk asked, easing himself up off the floor, using the table as
leverage.
“I told you ‘bout them evil spells!”
“Oh my God,” Polk said.
“And what do you mean, not her?” Tessa asked.
“Pappy you need to calm down for God’s sake,” Polk

said.
“And now he’s cursing,” Pappy said, looking up towards
the ceiling, with his hands wide spread, as if speaking to God.
“Cursing? Who’s cursing?” Polk asked, leaning upon the
kitchen table.
“I know!” Pappy said. “It’s your diabetes. Where’s your
medication?”
“My what?” Polk asked.
“Medication?” Tessa asked. “If anyone around here needs

medication it’s you.” Pappy leaned in towards Tessa as he spoke.

“Now missus,

I ain’t gonna punch you, but you’ve got to leave this place.”
“Punch me?”
“Pappy!” Polk said trying to calm the situation. “You

need to quit.”
Pappy started towards the refrigerator, looking for orange
juice or a candy bar or something with high quantities of sugar for
his boss’s diabetes.
“You need juice. Orange juice. Where’s the orange juice?”
“Pappy I’m not sick, now calm down before you have a
heart attack!”
 “And what’s he talking about? Punching me?” Tessa asked.
“Yeah,” Pappy said. “Like the last guy come up here
messing with my boss’s mind. Came up here staggerin’ drunk,
looking for a fight.”
“What last guy?” Tessa asked. She grabbed Polk by the
arm, forcing him to address her. “Is he talking about Justin Mr.
Polk?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Pappy said. He stood back and started
to re-enact his boxing match with Justin. He started shadow
boxing, dancing around the two of them and throwing punches
into the air. “He come in here drunker than God knows what. I
had to whoop him good.”
“Justin?” Tessa asked. “What happened to Justin, I need to
know now!”
Polk released her grip from his arm and pulled her close to
him. “Nothing happened to Justin. He came up here to talk and
got in a little scuffle with Mr. Pappy here.” Oh Lord, he’s shadow
boxing.
Her mouth was open, trying to determine who was telling
the truth. “Where is he?” She began to fear the worse. “What’s
happened to him?”
“Nothing’s happened to him,” Polk said.
“No? Then where is he?” she asked.
“I thought you might know,” Polk said.
Pappy continued to dance around the room, punching the
air and mimicking the sounds of imaginary punches and he began
to breathe heavier with every punch.
Polk remembered feeling afraid when Tessa arrived,
hoping she had not caught wind of any terrible news regarding
Justin. He hoped that his conversation with Justin had not let him
to the decision to end his own life. He knew if anyone, outside of
Ralph Parison would be considered for Justin’s safety, it was her.
 “I don’t know where he is. But I know he left here okay.
He got in an argument with Mr. Pappy and Pappy punched him in
the eye.”
“What?” Tessa said.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Polk said, trying to assure her
everything was okay.
Pappy continued to dance around the room, counting off
his imaginary punches in the air. “One, two, three. Left, right, left.”
Tessa watched, confused and concerned for what really
happened that night. Surely he could handle this old man, she thought.
“Are you two crazy?”
“Pappy, that’s enough. You need to leave.”
“Not until you take back that marriage proposal,” he said,
still boxing the air. Mr. Pappy was not a religious man by any
measure but he tried to pray aloud in the same manner as his boss.
“God of creation, save me from this moment.”
“I wasn’t proposing to Ms. Tessa,” Polk said. He looked
towards the ceiling and started again. “Oh God, I was only asking
her to tell me whether or not she loved Justin.”
“Who?” Pappy asked.
“Justin. Now quit it. The young man you punched the
other night.”
“Oh him. Why? She love him or somethin’?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Reverend Polk said.
“Yes,” Tessa said, declaring her love between the three of
them. “Yes, I do love him.”
Pappy stopped and looked to her. He was breathing heavy.
“You do?”
“Yeah, she said,” Polk told Mr. Pappy.
“Then why she here telling you and not out there telling
him? Justin or whatever his name is?” Pappy asked.
That’s a good question, Polk thought to himself. Why was she
here telling him instead of out there looking for Justin?
“I came to see if someone could tell me where I could find
him. I don’t know where he lives, only that he lives somewhere off
the lake in a cabin or something,” Tessa said. “But I can’t go out in
the woods lookin’ for him in this weather.”
“Crazy if you ask me,” Pappy said.
“Pappy. It’s time for you to go,” Polk said, showing him
the door again.
“Well I’ll be,” Pappy said. “Throw me out in the rain
again.”
“It’s okay Mr. Polk,” Tessa said. “I was just leaving.” She
wiped her tears and nervously ran her hands through her hair,
pulling it out of her face and she prepared herself for a long walk
through the rain. “Thank-you for your time by the way Mister
Polk.”
Pappy waved her over, leading her out the door. Before
exiting he looked back, and asked his boss if he was hungry.
“Hungry?” Polk asked, astonished by the question. What in
God’s creation is wrong with this man?
“Yeah, all this shadow boxin’ is makin’ me hungry boss.
You want me to make some sandwiches or something?” He smiled
and said, “Fried bologna. Your favorite!”
Polk looked at the two of them. Pappy was breathing
heavy and drenched, partially by the rain and partially by his own
perspiration. Tessa stood helpless, lost and confused but obviously
more comfortable than when she arrived. Polk began to laugh.
“Yeah Pappy. You go down and make us some
sandwiches, and I’ll eat with you.”
“Thanks boss,” Pappy said. He started out the door and
before leaving, tipped his head and an imaginary hat, wishing her
farewell.
Polk caught Tessa by the shirt sleeve before she slipped
away into the rain. “Wait Ms. Tessa. I’ll tell you how to find
Justin.”
—18—

The next morning Tessa woke again to the sounds of the

rains as they beat against her bedroom window. Yawning and
stretching her sleepy body, she could smell the rain as its scent
crept through the cracks in the windowsills in her bedroom and the
partially opened balcony door. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes
and recapped the moments and the scenes of last night’s
conversation with Reverend Polk within her mind and lying there
in bed, tucked neatly and safely beneath her covers, she became
overwhelmed with fear. She wasn’t afraid for herself, but rather she
was afraid for the man she had grown to love. She became afraid
for the man who held her in the same regard as the entire town of
Seymour. A man whose heart she believed longed for only her
love.
Love, she thought. She nearly laughed herself silly. She had
actually declared it to another person; she took the first step
towards obtaining a dream, a dream that could lead to heartbreak
and a dream that may lead to true love. I can’t believe I told the
preacher. Of all the people, she thought.
She considered her conversation until she couldn’t stand
the solitude any longer and she abandoned the confinement of her
home and headed into town in search of one Ralph Winslow
Parison, the town’s local grocery store manager and recluse. Before
she left her home, she showered quickly and put on some clothes
that would help emphasize her body’s natural sexual curvature. She
sprayed some perfume under and around her neck and bust-line
which revealed two lovely soft mounds of womanhood and she
took a moment to study herself in the mirror. Dangerous, she
thought. “Perfect Tess,” she said to the mirror.
She drove around the store several times before finalizing
her plan within her mind. She parked in the closest spot available
to the front entrance of the I.F.A. Foodstore. Inside, Mr. Parison
was busy at work as usual.
The rains continued to beat upon her windshield and she
watched as some of the town’s older patrons made their way
towards the front entrance of the store, hurriedly escaping the
weather. She noticed an elderly couple, one that appeared to have
been together for many years. She both admired and despised the
way they held one another’s hand at the base of their umbrella.
How long had they been together? How many years had the
husband considered his life with the same woman? And how many
years had the wife doubted her choice of men? Did she doubt at
all? Did he? How could two people, whose lives are but nearing the
twilight of a lifetime spent together, hold one another’s hand as
willingly as a young couple on the brink of a newfound love? How
is that possible?
Tessa watched the couple walking together and in
sympathetic disgust for herself, she lit a cigarette. She lowered the
driver’s side window just enough to allow the smoke to escape the
cab where she sat. To help take up more of her time and ease the
tension in her gut, she created small bursts of fire in her palm,
using her cigarette lighter. It was a trick she picked up during her
tenure at The Hawk’s Nest. One of the local drunks tried to
captivate her attention and sweep her off her feet using a lighter he
ultimately had to borrow from her.
In between thoughts of how best to deal with the Ralph
Parison situation, Tessa played with the lighter as she blew tiny
rings of smoke out the window pane. All the while her thoughts
were bent on Justin.
 From what she gathered from Reverend Polk, Ralph
Parison’s part in the story explained how Justin was able to survive
all these years without a job or steady income. After the crash,
Ralph Parison provided a place to live at one of his several cabins
he owned off the lake. Justin was responsible for maintaining the
upkeep to Ralph’s cabins in exchange for food and any essential
items he might need, including enough money to suffice his trips to
The Hawk’s Nest every other Saturday night. Ralph gave Justin his
1952 Chevrolet pickup truck to help him get to and from town and
he did his part to help keep him out of sight of the general public
by providing a means to meet in the back of the I.F.A. Foodstore
after store closing. This routine went on now for nearly four years.
Tessa lit and finished another cigarette and during that time
she established enough courage within herself to go inside and
confront Ralph Parison. When she entered the store, she found the
first available cashier, a young girl who was working her weekends
to earn herself some extra spending money, and she politely asked
to speak to the manager. The young cashier appeared overtaken by
Tessa’s prowess and raw physical beauty. The young girl’s eyes
widened and she bit her lip, in a manner of holding back a smile
and politely advised Tessa that she would return with the manager.
When Tessa said thank-you and turned away, the young cashier
looked her head to toe.
When Ralph came down from his office, he was somewhat
startled to find Tessa Jameson waiting out front. She was leaning
against his service register smiling at the sack-boys as they walked
by with their grocery carts.
Ralph was wearing a traditional polo shirt and khaki pants
with a light coat and a deli-style apron that read, property of I.F.A....
on the front, when he came out to greet his guest. As reclusive as
he had become over the past few years, he was still very aware and
very keen to the rumors and gossip that followed Tessa Jameson.
He knew more than he wanted to know about the lovely young
blonde and by the time he was face to face with her, he had already
convinced himself she was nothing more than trouble. Watching
her, leaning against the counter-top with her devilish smile, Ralph
became nervous and afraid.
Why would she ask for me personally? Ralph wasn’t even sure a
woman like her even shopped at traditional grocery stores. For all
he knew in his old fashioned gentleman-like mannerisms, women
like her didn’t eat traditional foods; instead, they survived off
booze and peanuts served on the bar and the occasional T.V.
dinner before bed. To him a woman like Tessa was as estranged
and as unfamiliar as vampires.
Maybe she has a complaint about the store? Yeah, that’s it. She must
have gotten some bad service from one of my sack-boys or maybe one of these
cashiers. Maybe someone forgot to double-bag? Ralph considered the
errand girl, the same cashier who appeared to admire Tessa’s nerve
when she asked to speak to the manager by name.
“I’m looking for Justin,” she said.
“Uh, Justin?” Ralph asked in a manner of clarifying which
Justin she was referring to. “We don’t have a Justin working here
ma’am.”
“Yes, Justin. I need to find him and I know you know
where he lives,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Well ma’am,” Ralph said, looking her up and down. “We
better step into my office.”
“No, I only need you to tell me where he lives Ralph. Tell
me how to get to his cabin.”
In a manner of keeping peace and maintaining order, Ralph
was able to persuade her to join him upstairs.
“Please?” he asked.
Upstairs Tessa was direct and to the point. She told Ralph
that she needed to speak with Justin and knew he could tell her
which cabin he resided in. Ralph was quick to deny her request and
the two of them began to debate the issue.
 Ralph told Tessa that it was not his place to encourage
visitors, per Justin’s request. Tessa explained how she had already
visited Reverend Polk and felt she had every right to seek him out.
Their debate was quiet and proper, loud enough to solidify each
other’s point but not loud enough to draw attention to the office
upstairs.
Ralph Parison paid close attention to the clock, not
wanting to give the impression to any of his staff that his visit was
anything more than business as usual, although it wasn’t. Tessa
knew how uncomfortable he felt, and unlike Reverend Polk, she
didn’t care to make him feel any more at ease than necessary. She
only wanted to know how to find Justin and she would be on her
way.
The two went back and forth, each contending an ideal or
point that was supposedly more important than the other’s reasons
for finding Justin or not.
“Very well,” Tessa said, removing herself from the seat
across from Ralph. “I will leave then.”
“Good,” Ralph said. “I am sorry ma’am. I want to help
you, but it was Justin’s request that no one know the location of his
cabin. I have to respect the man’s decision to be private. I’m sure
you can understand and appreciate that Ms. Tessa.”
“And you have done a fine job of upholding that promise
Mr. Parison,” Tessa said. She gave him a quizzical look, curious to
know what type of man she was dealing with. “Okay,” she finished
with a girlish smile.
Ralph followed her down the stairs, through the break-
room and out onto the main floor, escorting her towards the store
exit, hoping everyone would see her leaving. In the aisles a few
older women stared and watched, whispering among themselves as
they saw her coming out.
Tessa noticed the two women and a few other employees
watching her through the corner of their eyes. She had an idea. As
she headed towards the front doors, she started to sway and
smiled, shaking her round bottom on the way out. As she did, she
slowed, allowing Ralph to come closer to her as he hurried her out
the store. She quickly reached into her pocket, pulled out her
lipstick and smeared it across her mouth. And then she turned to
him, grabbing him around the neck, and she planted a huge kiss on
his lips.
To his own astonishment, Ralph Parison froze, locking his
arms outward as if he were a large bird about to take flight. Tessa
made sure she rubbed her lips left and then right, guaranteeing an
adequate smear of lipstick across his pucker. When she pulled
away, Ralph didn’t say a word; she leaned forward, knowing the
entire store was watching and whispered softly into his ear.
“Would you like me to tell everyone how wonderful you
are in bed?”
He snapped back to reality and his eyes widened with fear.
“I have never had any relations with you Ms. Tessa.”
“Yeah,” Tessa said. “But they don’t know that.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Tell me where he lives,” Tessa demanded softly, as she
turned to wave at the inquisitive patrons and employees. “Because
I might even be pregnant.”
Ralph Parison was in shock, not only because of her
threatening words but more so by the kiss. Even if it was an act of
retaliation in hopes of getting information on Justin’s whereabouts,
it was still a kiss. Another woman’s lips had made contact with his
and immediately his thoughts drifted to those of Darla Presley.
“Please don’t do that to me,” Ralph asked in a whisper.
“Which cabin?”
Ralph reached across a nearby register and pulled the roll
of receipt paper and tore it about two feet out. He fumbled across
his shirt pocket with his hand, trying to find his pen. The young
female cashier handed him her pen and smiled in amazement at
Tessa. He wrote the directions and whereabouts of Justin’s cabin
on that strip of white paper and handed it over to Tessa. He looked
at her as if to say, please go.
Tessa threw a wink to the young cashier, and as radiantly as
a movie star walking the red carpet, she reached behind Ralph and
squeezed firmly one butt cheek. “Thanks tiger,” she said, and
turned to walk out the door blowing a kiss at the two older ladies
as she left.
Ralph stood scratching at his behind and for a brief
moment, almost forgot where he was.
“What’s everyone staring at?” he yelled as he darted
towards the back of the store, up the wooden flight of stairs and
slammed shut his office door behind him. Everyone laughed.
—19—

It had been six days since Justin had his fight with Pappy
and his talk with Reverend Polk. Still the rain continued to fall and
still his cheek was sore. Justin seemed to lose the desire to drink
over the course of the days since their conversation and his body
began going through withdrawals. He was shaky and sweaty and his
hands were clammy. His stomach hurt for loss of appetite and food
and any form of nourishment, no matter how bad his diet had been
over the past six years. He didn’t quit smoking; he actually smoked
more, tossing and turning in his bed, to his recliner to the porch
swing and never a place within the cabin could he find comfort of
heart.

Tessa spent another day beneath the covers, calling in to

work again to tell Carl Lee and Peggy she had more personal issues
to tend to. They knew she was lying but no one said anything to
her. She watched the rains from beneath her covers and in all the
time alone under the covers, she did not touch one romance novel
nor did she touch herself. She felt lost to her own body. She
smoked on her balcony, ate dehydrated soups and watched
television. She remained in bed and thought about Justin.
She tried to determine what she would say when she saw
him. For a moment she couldn’t even remember why she wanted
to find him in the first place. He was crude and disrespectful every
time they were around one another. He was bitter and torn and for
the moment, she couldn’t convince herself he was worth her effort
or time.
After enough time spent watching the rains and listening to
courtroom judges post sentences to otherwise distraught people on
television, Tessa showered, dressed and headed out the door in
hopes of finding the man she had come to love.

By mid-afternoon Justin decided to bathe and attempt to

clean himself up. He stripped himself of the dingy denim jeans and
flannel shirt he wore days ago when he visited Polk. Sliding naked
into his bath tub, he stared towards his clothes on the floor with
disgust. He followed the outline of his bathroom and bathtub and
the area around his commode. What the hell happened to me?
Justin watched the filth of his unclean body swirl and mix
with his bath water and became sickened with contempt for his
own life. He scratched at his dirty beard and moustache and
searched for a mirror over the sink that wasn’t there. He destroyed
it years ago, hoping never to see himself again. Then he
remembered the mirror outside. It was leaning against one of the
outside windowsills, next to his toothbrush and paste. He leapt
from the tub, splashing water upon the floor and leaving wet prints
behind him on the ground.
Countless nights before he’d wander outside, wearing
nothing but his hatred and discontentment, never caring for who
or what might see him outside stark naked, but today, amidst the
hazy overcast of the steady rains, Justin paused to consider whom
he might offend should he be caught patrolling his cabin porch
completely nude. He propped the screened door open with his
head and looking left and then right, slipped outside onto his porch
in search of his mirror. The rains had picked up during the late
afternoon hours and the thunder began to crack louder and more
often than it had in days.
Tessa re-wrote the directions that Mr. Parison had given
her, and transferred them to a sheet of fancy stationary. She
followed the directions as he described and to her astonishment,
they were perfectly accurate. Her pickup truck bounced through
the mud and periodically slid from side to side. When she arrived at
what appeared to be Justin’s cabin, she turned off the headlights so
as not to startle him. She parked the truck a few yards back and
opted to walk the rest of the way through the thick mud. It had to
be a surprise.
Her boots slipped and sank deep into the mud and she had
to jerk her legs up, quickly and high to release herself from beneath
the muck and rain as she walked. The interior to the cabin was well
lit, not how she expected to find it and she pressed forward,
positive he had to be home. She moved as quickly as she could,
finally reaching the outer edge of Justin’s porch.
What would she say to him? How would she begin? Would
he be surprised and happy to see her? Sad? Upset? Would he ask
her to stay or would he turn and hide like the monster the rumors
had created for over six years?
Well this is it Tess. Don’t blow it.
He was staring at himself in the mirror when she rounded
the corner and leapt forward in an effort to get out of the rain. She
shook the water from her hair and as she lifted her head, there,
turning to face her, as naked as the day he was born stood Justin.
Tessa took in a breath, not expecting to find him much less
find him naked. Her mouth fell open, slowly, steadily as had her
eyes, following the naked contours of his body until they found the
most sacred part of his body. “Oh my,” she said. “Why, hello
Justin.”
He looked down to realize he was not the only member on
the porch who was startled by her presence. He reached down to
cover himself with one hand and in an instance, without as much
as a second thought, he began to yell.
“What the hell are you doing here woman? Who the hell
do you think you are? You can’t just barge in on someone’s home
because they might be,” he said, considering the right choice of
words for his disposition. “Naked!”
Tessa began to laugh at his antics, curious to know what he
was doing outside like that in front of the mirror. But as quickly as
she grinned, she became afraid and embarrassed.
“Get the hell outta here!” Justin yelled. “You have no right
to come to my home like this,” he said, still cupping himself with
one hand. “I’m sorry but you have to leave!”
“But Justin,” Tessa said, trying hard not to stare between
his legs. “I have to speak with you. Plus, it’s raining outside,” she
finished directing his attention towards the rain.
Justin leapt forward, grabbing her by the arm and he
shoved her off the porch and into the rain. “I said go!”
Tessa slid and struggled to regain her balance in the mud
and the rains drenched her entire body. She was wearing a light
windbreaker and a tight-fitted shirt that was light in color. Through
the shirt, Justin made out the curvature of her breasts and stared in
awe at her nipples as they became erect in the cool rain.
“Justin, I came to see if you were okay. I heard you had a
fight at the church and after the way you left me on Saturday night,
I was worried.”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is?” Justin asked
with both arms extended away from his body. “This is my home,
my private world. You have no right to intrude like this.” He
looked down at himself. “I mean, look at me! I’m naked!”
“I just wanted to talk. To check on you”
“I don’t need anyone checking on me, the least of which
you!”
“Justin I was worried.”
“I don’t care what you are! You need to get the hell out of
here!”
 There was a pause and a silence, broken only by the sounds
of the storm.
“Fine Justin,” she said. “I’ll go.” She caught him staring at
her nipples and smirked, giggling to herself before beginning the
long walk through the mud and muck and rain. “At least part of
you will miss me.” What the hell are you doing here Tessa? “I have to be
crazy,” she said to herself.
Justin looked down and to his astonishment, he was
completely erect. It had been many years since Justin Olerude
Bower felt the presence and animalistic desire for a woman’s touch
and taste and smell. Up until this very moment he hadn’t realized
how long it had been since he was merely aroused by a female. Up
until now, Justin had not been lonely, only alone. He stood on the
porch near his swing and he watched her leap into the truck,
shaking the mud from beneath her boots and as the truck spun
around, he watched her wrestle with the steering wheel to regain
control. Justin was shocked and surprised and scared. He suddenly
felt himself begin to miss her while her taillights faded into the
night and disappeared within the darkness of the woods.
—20—

Justin spent two more nights and three more days alone in
his cabin before deciding to come to terms with his decision. He
dressed into his only clean pair of denim jeans and flannel shirt,
and made his way to The People’s Assembly of God. It was still daylight
when he pulled into the parking lot and for a weekday, the church
was relatively busy with people coming in and out of the parking
lot.
“Shit,” he said. He hoped to be alone.
As he made his way towards the door, he stopped, looking
himself over and realizing how dirty he was even after his bath. He
decided to walk around back, where small groups of people were
gathered together, moving about the garage. They were rummaging
through large boxes and sifting through rows of clothing hanging
on metal racks. It was an older crowd but there were others, mostly
couples closer in age to him. They were talking and sorting through
clothes and miscellaneous household goods and everyone appeared
to be relatively busy. That is when he found Reverend Polk and not
too far away, like a guard dog, he found Mr. Pappy.
At first no one noticed him standing there; they kept
talking and working, moving boxes and breaking down boxes and
sorting out clothes. He waited, hoping someone might see him and
when they didn’t acknowledge him, he reached for a cigarette but
reconsidered. Instead he said hello. Everyone froze, realizing then
it was Justin standing before them. No one said anything and
everyone looked towards Reverend Polk as if waiting for him to
give a signal that all was well.
Surprised by the visit, Reverend Polk only said his name.
“Justin.” He realized Justin was waiting on him to continue. “How
are you son? Are you okay?” Of course he’s okay, he thought. He was
relieved to see him alive and he looked him up and down to make
sure all his parts were still in tact.
“I’ve come to see if I can take you up on that offer.” Justin
put his head down and kicked some mud with his boots. “I need a
favor,” he said in a whisper.
Wide-eyed Polk said, “Why certainly.” He was both
surprised and pleased with his visitor. This was the day the church
worked to collect goods for the less fortunate and gather and sort
through clothes for those who could not afford them. It was part
of Polk’s ministry, something he was proud of, but in time, like his
routine life spent alone within his garage apartment, it became just
another act of duty, which over the years seemed to lose its magic.
“What can I do for you son?” Polk realized everyone was
still staring and he could discern Justin wrestling with his thoughts
and his words. “Would you rather talk in private?”
Justin noticed Mr. Pappy reaching for his broom off in the
distance and he gave the old man an odd look. “Well actually,”
Justin said. “I was kind of hoping you might help me with some
clothes and maybe even a haircut,” he finished, running his hands
through his greasy wet hair.
“And a shave no doubt,” Reverend Polk said. He smiled
and explained to Justin how the church opened its doors to the less
fortunate during the week, providing canned goods and clothes
among the more important things. “Well, we just happen to have
some clothes right here that might fit you,” he said, leading Justin
towards a large assortment of garments in boxes.
People smiled and they were very anxious and excited to
help him but they were reluctant to jump right in. To them, he was
as mysterious as an animal in a circus cage, intriguing enough to
want to get near, but scary enough to keep a safe distance. Polk and
some of the others, still dumbfounded by Justin’s arrival, searched
through stacks of clothing, and to Polk’s amazement, everyone
there began to pitch in, offering the young man some help finding
a more suitable attire. When they found what everyone felt was
right for his frame and his physique, he was immediately swept
away to Mr. Pappy’s living quarters to change. Of course, Pappy
wasn’t too thrilled with the idea, but after some strict persuasion
from his boss, and a few looks from some of the older ladies who
were now completely consumed with the makeover, he kindly
accepted their looks of persuasion.
A group of older ladies were smiling and despite his past
and his reputation for being mean and crude, they talked to him,
like a grandmother might talk to her grandson she hadn’t seen in
some time. They complimented the look they all approved of and
they courteously declined some of the clothes he preferred and
each time he came to get their opinion, there were more, stacks and
stacks of clothes. Some of the younger men offered their advice
and their wives did the same. He tried on several more items and in
the end he stood before the inquisitive mass wearing a pair of black
dress slacks, some worn dress shoes, and a baby-blue long sleeved
dress shirt; the clothes were a bit large but much more presentable
than the denim jeans and flannels he had become accustomed to
wearing.
Reverend Polk smiled during the course of the entire
process, proud to witness first hand the slow and careful
transformation of the lost young man who had become a demon
within his mind over the past few years. Just days before Justin was
nothing more than a misplaced, dying soul and now suddenly
standing before him in that same young man was the image of
what Reverend Polk referred to as hope embodied.
Over the course of several more hours, shielded from the
sporadic rains from within the church garage, Reverend Polk and
various members of the church congregation talked with Justin,
and to their astonishment, learned the ulterior motive behind his
visit. Justin explained the situation between him and Tessa
Jameson, “the town whore,” as she was known, and he detailed his
desire to seek her out and apologize, to make amends for what he
had done and how he had treated her.
The town barber was called in to partake in the
transformation. He was a long time friend to Reverend Polk and
the people called him Charlie. Always smiling, he enjoyed more
than anything in this world, listening to people’s stories, cutting
people’s hair and listening to himself speak. While Charlie went to
work on Justin, the women gathered around to offer their opinions
and straight-forward advice on how he was to win the heart of
Tessa Jameson, if that was indeed his intent.
First was the long greasy hair. Charlie cut it close to the
scalp, letting loose long strands of unkempt hair. When it was
gone, he used his magic to clean him up, some hot foam around
the neck, a straight razor and then he went to work on Justin’s
beard and moustache.
Justin felt himself diminishing within the chair, strand by
strand and cut by cut; he stared at the long strands of hair as they
remained lifeless on the floor, the hair he once used to hide from
humanity and the look that made up his identity as town tragedy.
Charlie placed several hot towels on Justin’s face, allowing
his pores to open enough for the hair to almost fall off as his
straight razor eased over the contour of Justin’s face.
Justin kept his eyes closed the entire time, not wanting to
see the end result until it was done; he didn’t want to see himself
until it was over. When Charlie finished, he stood back with pride
and waited for his customer to acknowledge his handy-work.
What Justin first noticed were the expressions of awe and
amazement on the people’s faces around him. Reverend Polk came
over and asked him if he was ready to take a look. The older ladies
grinned and whispered amongst themselves in approval and the
younger ones said nothing; they only smiled and tried not to appear
obvious in their attempts to look him over. Before he removed
himself from his chair, Charlie reached over and slapped some
after-shave lotion on his face and immediately Justin’s eyes began
to water.
It had been many years since Justin had seen himself this
way. To him, it felt as though he were staring at the image of man
he remembered in a former life. Who was that man? What was he
to become before the accident so tragically ended his life? What
great things was he to accomplish? Would a life so destined by love
completely oppose the hatred that has dictated the actions of the
man he was becoming, or the man he had become? Here he was
only thirty, and he was still seemingly handsome, but he now
carried a look of a man who spent many years carrying the weight
of his past like an invisible chain around his neck. Somewhere
behind the grimy beard and moustache, the long and greasy hair,
Justin lost himself. He was shocked to see his face, his scar below
his left eye and his dimples. He touched the newly shaven skin and
it stirred the memory of his hands against his face like a blind man
feeling his way into his past. He didn’t know what to say. Justin
stood and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
My God, he thought.
The people nodded their approval of the man who stood
before them and they silently applauded Charlie as if he concocted
Justin using magic spells and wizardry. Justin was handsome and
clean shaven and although his clothes didn’t fit as they should,
there was a rugged sensation in him that intrigued everyone’s
arousal—everyone except Mr. Pappy. To the rest of the people
who spent the day with Justin at the church, they were excited to
catch a glimpse of the man he was before the accident some six-
years ago. Justin felt as though he were meeting himself for the first
time.
The excitement continued and Justin was again bombarded
with instructions on how to handle his “circumstances of love”
with Tessa Jameson, as one of the older ladies put it. He listened as
attentively as he could and he smiled and tried to remember
everything the people were telling him, but his head began spinning
again in the midst of the crowd noise and sudden tightness of
space. In the midst of the excitement Justin thought about his wife
Christy.
It was Mr. Pappy who intervened and brought Justin back
to reality, stealing him from his momentary thoughts of his wife.
“Flowers,” he said. Mr. Pappy’s part in the ensemble was to suggest
Justin buy her some flowers, or at least one flower. The old man
paced in and around his living quarters as if checking to make sure
nothing was stolen during Justin’s dress rehearsal. He said he was
sick of hearing the people argue on the best approach for Justin to
get Ms. Tessa’s attention, so finally he stepped in, shoving his way
forward with his broom and said to Justin, “Girls like flowers. If
you wanna get her attention and let her know how you feel, get the
girl some flowers.”
The people nodded in agreement and Justin asked if there
was any particular type of flower he should purchase. An older lady
told him there was; she said he should buy the kind that comes
from the heart. “They are always the right kind,” she said.
Pappy interrupted the moment by reminding Justin not to
pick any from the church garden. “You hear what I’m saying?
Don’t let me catch you pickin’ my flowers.”
Just shook his head and said nothing in return.
“You don’t want none of this boy,” Pappy said walking
away.
Justin told everyone thank-you and then shook Reverend
Polk’s hand one more time before saying good-bye. He put his arm
around the heavy girth of the town Pastor and thanked him again
silently.
“You have no idea how much this means to me,” Justin
said.
 “I haven’t done anything for you Justin you didn’t do for
yourself.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t think I would have gotten this far
if it weren’t for you,” Justin said.
Polk smiled and gestured over towards Pappy with his
head. “Maybe it was his knock-out punch?”
The two men laughed and separated but not before Justin
advised Reverend Polk he would return, no matter what decision
he came to next.

When Justin left the church that evening, his thoughts were
bent on visiting Tessa Jameson and making amends with her,
though he wasn’t sure how he was going to do it. He didn’t know if
he was going to walk right up to her and ask for forgiveness, pull
her away and privately thank her for all she had done, or openly
admit his hidden desires to have her become part of his life. There
were many approaches Justin could take but he couldn’t decide
which approach would work best.
He passed the I.F.A. Foodstore on the way out of town,
heading towards The Hawk’s Nest and he slammed on the brakes
and turned his truck around in the middle of the highway. He let
the truck run idle on the side of the road before heading back
towards the grocery store. There was much to consider for his life
and if things were to turn out better for him, he had to be very
careful how he approached Mr. Parison.
Justin lit a cigarette and blew smoke outside the window,
watching the smoke trails break with the wind. He had been
bombarded with so many new feelings and emotions, still coupled
with feelings of uncertainty and fear for his own future. He knew it
was time to settle his peace with Mr. Parison but he didn’t know
how. He tried to imagine the anguish he would have suffered all
those years, pains similar to those suffered by Justin, but on a
different plane and to a different extreme. Here Justin was feeling
sorry for himself and giving up hope for his life because he
couldn’t let go of the memory of his family and there, living a life
that paralleled Justin’s was Mr. Ralph Parison, suffering with the
same poison every night because he too couldn’t let go of the pains
he caused in the accident.
Justin found a parking spot close to the front entrance to
the store. What Justin didn’t know was how to make his peace with
the man who felt solely responsible for killing his wife Christy and
their son Johnny. He finished another cigarette and nodded hello
to people as they passed his window seat in the truck, sure they
couldn’t recognize him with his new look, but positive they
recognized the truck that once belonged to its former owner,
Ralph.
His moment with Ralph Winslow Parison happened in the
simplest manner, spoken in the most simplistic means known to
men who were accustomed to living solitary, private lives. With the
deep sincerity, Justin walked in the store, hanging his head down
low so as not to be immediately recognized and then grabbed the
smallest handheld basket he could find. He started walking,
searching the store for its slick-haired manager and hesitantly
making eye contact with each person as he passed them in the
aisles. He could feel the stares of the patrons as he eased by,
slipping by as not to be rude, but obviously working towards being
unnoticed.
When he finally noticed Ralph towards the front of the
store, he stopped, reaching without looking and grabbing a few
choice items from the shelves, tossing them into his plastic bin. An
older lady noticed him and asked him if he was new to his
particular type of shopping. At first he simply nodded a yes,
assuming she was referring to his shopping during the daytime, but
upon inquiry he realized she was referring to the assortment of
female hygiene products he tossed into his bin. Justin laughed,
realizing she had not recognized him with his new haircut and
shave and politely said yes.
 “It is a little awkward,” he said.
The older lady shrugged her shoulders than waved one
hand in the air and said, “Don’t feel so bad. I used to make my son
do it for me.”
He placed the items back on the shelf and replaced them
with more traditional grocery items, bread, a box of crackers, some
sandwich spread, and a large bag of chips.
Justin crept slowly towards the front of the store, waiting
for the precise moment to approach Mr. Parison. When he noticed
Ralph open another aisle and then wave towards some of the
waiting customers, he made his move.
He kept his head low and pretended to read some pages
within a T.V. Guide. He made minimal eye contact with anyone
and hid himself from general view behind a nearby customer.
“Hello Mr. Parison,” a lady said as she placed her items on
the check-out stand.
Mr. Parison smiled and returned the gesture. “And how are
the kids,” he asked.
Their conversation was casual and typical of people trying
to appear polite and pass the time until they were ready to pay. It
was typical until Justin overheard the customer telling Ralph the
latest gossip in town.
“Are you sure it was him?” Ralph asked rather concerned.
“Yes, my friend Marlene from down at the church, you
know Mr. Polk’s church? She told me he walked right in and
started sifting through piles of clothes and even got a haircut.”
Ralph stared blankly at the lady all the while processing
food items through the electronic scanner. “You don’t say?”
“Uh huh. I mean they say he looks handsome and stuff all
cleaned up and all, but I still think he’s loony as a madman,” she
said.
 Ralph bid the lady good-day and never noticed Justin
sliding forward to take her place. Justin set his items on the check-
out stand and in a manner of routine Ralph began to scan the items
one by one before finally making eye contact with Justin.
“You know that lady just said that Justin...” Ralph never
finished his sentence; he only froze in an instance of uncertainty
and fear. “My God, it’s true,” he said realizing who was standing
before him. “Well I can say this is quite a surprise.”
“Yeah,” Justin said. “People like to talk.” And fast. Justin
realized Ralph was tense and timid and uncertain how he should
react. And working to maintain control over the moment he
turned, nodding a hello to some of the customers who waited in
line behind him. “I had some things I had to get.”
“Get?” Ralph asked. “Yeah, I missed you the other night.”
“Yeah,” Justin said. “Something came up.”
“I’m sure there are some things you need then? I can run
out back and gather those things together if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary Ralph. I only need a few things,”
Justin said.
Ralph’s thoughts immediately drifted to images of the gun
he left with Justin many years ago. “Don’t you have everything you
need to get the job done son?”
Justin looked over his items at the register. “Yeah, I
suppose I do.” He took in a heavy breath and continued. “I guess
what I meant to say was, I came to leave something here.”
Oh my God, he’s come to kill me, Ralph thought, feeling hot
and sweaty around the collar and beneath his armpits. He gave a
smile to the customers who were curious to know what the two
men were talking about and then returned his attention back
towards Justin. “You know most people go to the store to pick up
items, not drop them off.” Ralph scanned the items at the register.
“So, is it here?”
 “Is what here?”
“That thing you came to return,” Ralph said.
“It is,” Justin said. “I’ve been carrying it for a while
actually. I guess I was waiting for the right moment to bring it
back.”
“And is this the time you feel you should drop it off?”
“Well, I’m new at this sort of thing. Am I in the right aisle,
or should I be in another line?” Justin asked, waving over his
shoulder with one hand.
“No son, I think you are in the right place,” Ralph said. “I
guess we can take care of things right here, don’t you?” Ralph took
in a breath and let out a heavy sigh. “Perhaps you need to speak to
someone in particular? You know, to return the items to?”
“It’s just one thing,” Justin said, playing along with Ralph.
“I think I found him. The question is, is he ready to take what I
have to offer?”
Ralph could feel his heart beating within his chest. He was
certain now Justin was here to confront him for the accident or
worse, reach deep into his pockets and pull out his pistol and shoot
him dead. Ralph even thought about the mess it would make if his
blood scattered all over the register and stand.
“I think the question is more along the lines of, are you
ready to offer it up?” Ralph asked. “You know, let it go? Are you
ready to trade one bad sale for a new one?”
“Funny thing is, I don’t see it that way anymore,” Justin
said.
“That’s good,” Ralph said with a smile and a sigh of relief.
“Because I think he has been waiting for some time for you to
show up.”
Justin shook his head in agreement. “Then it’s done. I leave
it here for you. Do with it as you please, but either way, I can’t
carry it anymore. You see, I’m tired now,” Justin said patting his
chest close to his heart.
Ralph’s throat began to swell and his eyes glazed over with
tears. He obverted his face from Justin’s eyes and under his breath
he said thank-you and then turning back towards Justin he said, “I
accept it then.”
Justin extended his hand towards Ralph’s and the two men
shook. No one said a word around them; they only watched and
waited upon realization that the rumors were true. Justin Olerude
Bower had cleaned himself up and was standing in the store where
half the rumors about his life were started.
The last thing Justin did before walking out of the I.F.A.
Foodstore was grab a plastic rose from the register. It was worn
and it looked as though it sat on the register for many years.
Not another word was said between the two and still, it
was understood. Justin had offered Ralph his forgiveness and
Ralph Winslow Parison accepted it.
—21—

When Justin left the I.F.A. Foodstore, he took with him a

sense of hope in a possible new beginning at life and one plastic
rose. He securely set it in the passenger side seat as if it were Tessa
Jameson herself riding along side him. It was cheap and withered
and the clear plastic sheathing was dusty and had already begun to
fade to a dull white. To Justin however, it was perfect and new and
full and it represented a possible new start in life. He drove down
the two-lane blacktop until he reached The Hawk’s Nest. The sun
had just set off in the horizon and the clouds worked to spill
intermittent rains over the city. The crowd of regulars was slowly
making their way inside the bar, hand in hand, as they prepared for
another night of unsanctioned love and drunken romance.
There was no other way to address his concerns with Tessa
Jameson than to barge in and get straight to the point. Before
exiting his truck, Justin reached across the front seat and grabbed
his plastic rose, stuffing it neatly into his back pocket. Like an old
gun slinger from a Wild West movie, Justin knew the killer blow
would have to come at a precise moment—at just the right time—
or all would be lost and he would risk being shot down and dead in
front of everyone within the bar.
He did his best to adjust his appearance, feeling somewhat
insecure without his beard and long greasy hair, as if the thin layers
of dirt trapped within his hair provided some sort of false security.
He ran his fingers across the top of his head, feeling the newness
and tried to straighten his bangs which now blew freely in the
wind. He nervously tucked his shirt-tail into his pants and wiped
the tips of each dress shoe with the back of each pant leg. There
was no going back now. It was high-noon outside The Hawk’s
Nest and his adversary was now Hope.
“Well this is it Justin,” he said to his reflection in the
stained glass pane of his driver’s side window.
Justin stood at the bar’s entrance for a moment, breathed
in heavily and stepped inside, hoping and allowing fate a moment
to intervene. He felt the swift nudge of the door handle in his
lower back as it slammed shut behind him with the force of the
winds. He caught the squinting stares of onlookers, first one and
then many, as they worked to adjust their sight to the clean-cut
man standing in their doorway. Many shrugged him off as just
another passer-by, someone new and curious looking to have a
drink in their small-town paradise before moving on with their
lives to possibly bigger and better places. He didn’t move, only
stood still as if waiting on a cue for someone to address him and
tell him what to do and how to act. Okay Justin, what now?
The longer he stood at the door, the more the people
began to realize who he was, and as they did, with each failing
whisper the bar fell silent. Lovers let go of one another’s hands and
the old men paused in telling their stories of greatness to sip their
drinks and the older ladies shifted all their attention away from
themselves and towards Justin and then to her.
One of the first members of the bar to recognize him was
an older lady named Paula; she was a seasoned veteran of The Nest
and one of the more sympathetic supporters of Tessa Jameson. She
coughed up smoke and sipped on her beer, before her eyes found
Tessa behind the large wooden bar. When she found her, she said
softly, “Sweetie, I think there is someone here to see you.”
Everyone heard and everyone looked towards Tessa’s direction,
including Justin.
Tessa realized something was amiss, completely out of
place, when the people in the bar all stopped to face the front door.
Her first assumption was it had to be a regular, maybe someone
who may have missed their occasional night-at-the bar session and
upon realization that the slamming of the door wasn’t followed by
the sounds of the usual “hellos” and “where you been” and “how
you doin,” she thought it might be worth a look. She wasn’t
prepared in any way for what she found when she made eye
contact with Justin.
Her first reaction was that of amazement. What she saw in
the man standing at the door was to her, pure manly beauty and
strength and she was momentarily stunned. The man was both
rugged and clean and he carried the physical look of someone
strong, someone capable of taking care of themselves but when she
looked into his eyes she sensed a childlike gentleness, with a look
that almost begged someone to save him from himself. He was
standing at the door and looking to her, as if waiting for an
invitation to come inside as if somehow The Hawk’s Nest was her
home.
She squinted to help gain focus through the hazy smoke
that always lined the ceilings and her heart began to beat faster as
she studied him now without the long greasy hair and dingy beard,
the tattered and worn clothes and more so, without the apparent
attitude. Her eyes widened with enticement. Oh my, she thought.
Justin?
Tessa eased herself from behind the bar. Carl Lee was busy
watching her, waiting to see how she might react and she set her
hand upon his shoulder as if to regain her own sense of security
and to let him know all was well. The bar remained still and the
music seemed to diminish slowly until all that could be heard was
the beating of two hearts, one belonging to Justin Olerude Bower
and the other to Ms. Tessa Jameson.
Justin was nervous but coolly stood his ground. “Hi,” he
said. The silent sounds of his voice seemed to travel through the
bar as if his words were carried with the smoke. “I hoped we might
talk.” He looked around the bar. In private.
Tessa stepped forward from the crowd and as curious as
she was to speak with him and look at him, she asked instead,
“Talk? You want to talk to me?” She let out a sarcastic laugh and
continued. “Or did you come here to cuss me out and tell me what
a whore I am?”
Her words struck him deep within his heart and seemed to
cut the silence within the bar. Justin began to realize the complexity
of his inner desires for her. Here, amidst the drunks and stench of
cigarette smoke and stale beer, Justin Bower began to understand
how much his heart had ached for her and how normal he felt
when she was around. As much as he missed his wife these many
years, he seemed to acknowledge his neglect of Tessa’s company
more as the days went on and the complexity of their silent dance
around the topic of love went forward with each passing Saturday-
night-visit to The Hawk’s Nest.
“No. I just want to talk,” he said.
“Talk or apologize?” Tessa asked sternly.
Justin smiled and in that smile, Tessa felt her heart sink to
her feet. She felt her throat get heavy with each passing moment
and it became harder for her to breathe. He was handsome; there
was no denying that. Without the beard she could clearly see the
outline of his scar and battered cheekbone but despite the wounds
he was sleek and clean and to her, truly adorable. She worked to
regain her composure and remembered how he had treated her just
days ago when she stopped by his cabin to check on him. She
could not give in to his desire to have the upper hand. She had
been treated poorly by entirely too many men to allow Justin a
chance to do the same and as the cabin was his place of refuge and
safety, so too was The Hawk’s Nest and the solitary world of
drunken lovers.
“I only want to talk,” Justin said, remembering the plastic
rose in his back pocket. He became nervous and wanted
desperately to reach for it, but he reminded himself about the
timing of the matter and he tucked his hands instead, neatly into
his front pockets. Not yet Justin. Almost time, he thought.
Like a tennis match, the patrons followed the game. First
they watched Tessa; they studied her eyes and her body language
and then they looked towards Justin, and as each one spoke in turn,
the entire crowd of drunks followed with their eyes and head
pausing only to sip their drinks. It was now her turn to speak.
Tessa fumbled with her apron and then she began. “Well I
have nothing to say to you. Unless you plan on sitting down and
buying some beer, I suggest you get the hell outta here.”
The veteran woman, Paula, reached over and touched
Tessa’s shoulder, trying to ease her tone, hoping she wouldn’t be so
quick to shoo him away. She gave Tessa a sympathetic look, in a
manner of saying, easy girl because he might actually leave.
Justin was speechless, unsure of what to say and how to say
it. In his heart he knew what words should come out, but in the
midst of the pressure from the drunken onlookers, he folded. He
pulled his hands from his pockets and reached for his secret
weapon, feeling for the plastic rose, but couldn’t bring himself to
reveal it to her. It’s no use.
Overwhelming sadness crept into his heart and his mind
and he only looked to her and said her name, “Tessa.” It was all he
could say. I’m sorry.
He gave one look around, and nodded in agreement,
believing she was right. He had no right to intrude on her life, in
her world, within her safe haven. Coming here to the bar,
unannounced was no different than she barging in on his world
within the cabin. The tables had turned and this time she was
standing exposed, emotionally naked before the masses and he was
standing in the rain. Justin hung his head and retreated, confused,
upset and saddened. He turned to walk out the door.
 Tessa let out a sigh. She had won the emotional showdown
with Justin. But it was a confrontation she would have much
preferred to lose. No one said a word. She put her face in her
hands and fought back the tears and as courageously as she could,
went back to work, collecting drink orders and wiping down tables.
No one dared intervene any further, no one but Trey Phillips.
Justin was walking out with his head down, not paying
attention to where he was going and Trey Phillips was walking in
when he shoved passed and through Justin to make his presence
known.
“Watch where the hell you’re going,” Trey said. He missed
the recent action between Justin and Tessa but created his own
ruckus walking in as he so commonly had many nights before. He
had already spent hours drinking by the time he showed up this
night and he didn’t recognize Justin with his clean-cut hair and
more civilized attire. Justin didn’t turn to acknowledge him, at least
not until Trey grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.
“Hey, you deaf? I said watch where the hell you’re going!”
Before Trey had a chance to realize who he was talking to,
he was on the ground, staring at the ceiling and sucking in air.
Justin punched him once in the gut and he let out a loud grunt as
his breath escaped his lungs and then again in the face, knocking
Trey off his feet entirely. His head hit the concrete slab and it made
a loud thudding sound that only a human skull can make when it is
slapped against any hard surface. When his eyes regained focus on
his surroundings, he caught the glaring stare of Justin standing over
him, his finger directed down and towards his eyes.
“Don’t you ever touch me again! You understand me?”
Trey didn’t acknowledge; he only curled himself up in a
fetal position and rolled over on one side with his eyes rolling back
in his head between heavy gasps of air.
 Justin looked around and then back again towards Trey.
“And if you ever disrespect Tessa again, I’ll find you. And I’m
gonna kick the shit out of you.” He reached for a drink on a nearby
table and poured the contents over Trey’s face. He was angry and
he followed the entire perimeter of the bar until he made eye
contact with every person in the bar. This was the Justin they all
had come to know over the years, mean and full of hate. He gave
one final look towards Trey Phillips, turned and shoved the door
open and disappeared.
—22—

The rest of the night was plain and dull compared to the
action leading up to Justin’s departure. Inside, life continued as it
had before his arrival, but in a more somber sense. There was
however more things to discuss, but only in spurts, as the people
waited for their waitress to move away from their tables before
continuing the conversation.
Carl Lee finally took action and had some of the other men
in the bar escort Trey Phillips to his car. Peggy was reluctant to
help, but upon insistence from Carl Lee and others, she obliged
their request and left for the night, seeing Trey home safely. It
didn’t take much persuasion after the initial request.
People returned to playing pool, music blared from the
jukebox and they bought and consumed lots of alcohol. The
regulars had become first-hand witnesses to the slow ongoing
procession between the two lonely hearts over the course of many
years. And despite an overwhelming desire to see the end of Justin
Olerude Bower, tonight, the hearts of those more judgmental
drunks had changed. The people had witnessed him take a stand
for what he wanted, a stand for something good, and although it
did not turn out the way it should have—in their eyes at least—the
desires of two lonely hearts was revealed. There would be no more
secrets between the two. No more questions would exist as to why
she was the only bartender who could serve him and why he
treated her so badly in public. To the regular drunks, this was as
romantic as love in a bar like The Hawk’s Nest could get, and for
them that would always suffice.
Tessa worked her tables and smiled, ignoring the many
curious looks of uncertainty from her fellow patrons and
customers. She could hear the whispers and the rumors already
beginning to come to life from various groups and corners within
the bar. Some of the older ladies worried for her, knowing that this
was the best love had to offer women of their type and as hurtful
as that reality had become, they too knew it was real.
The groups diminished slowly, one by one, couple by
couple, staggering out in hopes of semi-romantic escapades and
again, as it had been time and time before, Tessa closed out the
registers, swept and mopped the concrete floor and locked up,
finishing her night with a cigarette in the back office and a tear. She
wished she hadn’t made him leave the way she did, but Tessa
believed it was for the best. Justin was the one man she could not
allow to treat her the way all the other men who came in and out of
her life had done before. He was the one person in the world she
hoped would not judge her as the rest of her living world had done
her entire adult life. He was the one she hoped would see her for
who she truly was, not what people thought she had to offer.
Inside, Tessa wrestled within her mind to secure the key to
her heart as safely as she locked herself away in the back office of
The Hawk’s Nest. Everyone was gone. The register was closed out
and the concrete floors were clean of beer and vomit stains and the
entire world as she knew it was now asleep and she remained alone,
crying heavier than she had before. No one was around to watch
her as they had been all night and no one was there to scold her for
allowing herself to become so emotionally dramatic, so she let go
of her emotions and she wept.
Tessa lit a cigarette, tossing the lighter across the office
room floor, allowing her body to relax as she fell to the torn leather
sofa. She waited until the sadness and heaviness in her heart was
more tolerable before gathering her things to leave for the night.
 Outside it continued to rain and the weather was cool and
Tessa fumbled with the keys in her attempt to lock the bar for the
night. To her surprise, she heard a noise coming from the side of
the bar, not far from a large stack of used and ruined tires. She held
firm to the keys as they were set inside the lock and listened to the
night, trying to discern who or what was lurking in the shadows.
Trey? She said “hello” but no one answered and she was
momentarily frightened when a man appeared from within the
shadows.
“Justin! Holy shit!”
He was drenched and his dress shirt had large dark stains
on the back and the sleeves from leaning against the pile of used
tires and his dress shoes were full of mud and with the weight of
the water in his pants, it was obvious now he was not the original
owner of his new garments.
“What on Earth are you doing?” Tessa asked. “You about
gave me a heart attack!”
Like a boy on his first date, Justin reached into his back
pocket and found the faded plastic rose. It was bent and drenched
from the rain and because of the tires it was dirty but it was the
best thing he had to offer apart from his sincerity and a heartfelt
and much overdue apology.
Staring at that plastic rose beneath the elements of the
storm, Tessa became saddened knowing that despite the numerous
gifts that had been given to her throughout her young adult life this
one would mean the most because of the effort it took to present it
and the manner in which it was given. It would be the most
precious gift anyone would ever give her.
“I meant to give you this earlier,” Justin said.
Oh shit Tess. “I guess I didn’t give you much of a chance did
I?”
Justin shook his head to say no and kicked mud with his
feet.
“Well come with me,” she said.
“With you?” Justin asked. “And where are we going?”
“To my home sweetie. We need to get you out of those
wet clothes and I need to get out of this rain. Besides Justin,” she
said with a half-witted grin, “I’m tired.”
Before Justin could say no or yes or debate the issue of
whether or not it was the right thing to do considering the
circumstances, he was in his truck following her home down the
windy wet roads and as he followed behind her he smoked as many
cigarettes as he could to help relax and ease the tension within his
mind. He was unsure of how he should react, visiting a woman’s
home in the middle of the night, and trying as he did, he could not
remember the look of his wife’s facial features. He tried to imagine
how she might react if she could see him at this moment. He tried
to picture his wife’s face, as if somehow he was about to cheat on
her or betray their love to one another. Something about Tessa’s
presence and forwardness in her desire to save him and keep him
safe and quite simply to love him, gave him a sense of peace and
that peace began to wage war with his guilt for his lost love. The
past week of his life had been a whirlwind and he was suddenly
tired, feeling as though he hadn’t slept in years.
Well shit Justin. What are you doing?
—23—

Ralph Parison had much to consider on this night. He had

his first real encounter with the woman dubbed town whore and even
felt the wetness of her soft experienced lips against his. Sitting at
his desk, staring at his whiskey and attempting to drown out his
senses with the loud sounds of rock-n-roll music, he could smell
her perfume all over his face and although it was all an act of
seduction in a manner to get what she wanted, that kiss was no less
real to him. Something new seemed to stir within his soul,
something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
It had been many years since he had been that close to
another female, much less kissed another woman. For the first time
in many years he felt a new sense of guilt, not the guilt he had
suffered for over six years, the guilt that plagued his nights and
haunted his mind because of what he had done to Justin’s family,
but a guilt a married man might feel after cheating on his wife and
family. He was nervous and afraid and seemingly overly paranoid.
He tried to imagine the rumors that may have already begun to
spread around town. What would they say? How would they see
him? Would they disown him? Would he be forced by some
imaginary induction into life at The Hawk’s Nest? And as heavy as
his heart had been or as clear as his memory had allowed him to
remember, he could almost see, touch and feel his lost love—Ms.
Darla Presley.
How long had it been since she walked out of his life? He
considered the days and months and years over a glass of whiskey.
How long had it been since he thought about her as much as he
had tonight? He had devised a schedule of busy routine to help
suppress his heart’s desire to grieve for her loss. He spent more
time at work than he had at home. In his home he hid any
remnants of their life spent together in romantic courting, so that
when he did walk into his home, never a memory could be stirred.
Tonight he sat in his office chair, sipping again on his whiskey and
listening to his music. As he had always done, he would reach for
the stereo and lower the volume enough to discern the sounds
from the store below.
The I.F.A. Foodstore was a scary place to linger in at night.
So much life and so many spirits of those customers who visit
throughout the day seem to linger on as the sun goes down. He
could hear grocery carts being slammed into one another or freezer
doors being opened and then closed again, their distinct suction
sound could be made from the other side of the store. He could
often hear his registers beeping and he could even make out the
sound of one being opened. He could hear faint whispers as
customers conversed in his aisles. What were they talking about?
What were they saying? What were they saying about him?
Ralph began to feel uneasy with himself and more so of his
surroundings. He didn’t want to be in the store anymore and he
had no desire to be alone any longer than necessary. He looked
around his office, taking in a breath that reeked of stale mop water
and remembered where he kept her picture. It was hidden beneath
piles of stacked paperwork and bills of lading. There she was. It
was her as real as she had been when she was part of his life. In
that picture of Darla he could see her smile and it seemed to come
to life through the photograph. How could he have let her slip
away? How could he have given up on the one true essence of life?
How could he have given up on love?
He scooted the glass away and turned his desk radio off.
His thoughts slipped away from Darla and now he began to
consider Mr. Justin Olerude Bower. How much courage did it take
for that young man to walk into his store? How much more
courage did it take for him to bathe and shave and have someone
cut his hair? He cleaned up pretty good, Ralph thought.
With that final assumption Ralph retreated from the
confines of his office. He slid out from his store apron, tossing it
upon the back of his chair, and like a dog unsure of his
surroundings in a new home, he eased out of his office and walked
down the stairs and into the dark corridors of the I.F.A. Foodstore.
His heart was heavy and he was battling a mixture of emotions—
feelings of possible renewed hope and uncertainty— and in his
mind he felt a sense of youth revived and eagerness to live again all
because of that kiss.
He arrived home, undressed, showered and ate a large
bowl of cereal before going to bed. It had been so long since he
had a good night’s rest but tonight, upon sliding within the covers,
Ralph Parison closed his eyes and drifted away into a peaceful
sleep.

Reverend Polk worked to prepare his Sunday sermon on

his kitchen table, with soft music playing in the background and a
fresh cup of coffee in his hand. Mr. Pappy was downstairs in his
room watching a previously recorded boxing match on his old
T.V. Besides his faith, he felt entirely alone tonight. He worked
hard to prepare his sermon but no matter how hard he worked to
find the right words, nothing appeared right to him on paper. He
stood, taking his coffee cup with him and looked outside, feeling
restless and searching his mind for the right words. He thought
about Ms. Tessa and how she was feeling after their conversation.
He was curious to know if he was any help at all. He thought about
Justin and felt guilty for not checking in on him after their talk. He
was hopeful that his words were right and proper and he was still
afraid that he may have given the man the courage to take his own
life.
All the years spent in the ministry Reverend Polk felt as
though he had never truly impacted anyone’s life for the better. It
was a burden he carried every Sunday morning when he dressed
for service and every time he heard someone mention the name
Justin. He was always afraid he might get caught up in religious
routine and lose track of the fire he had when he got his calling to
serve the Lord. This was something he routinely shared with his
deceased wife, Aretha May. She used to tell him he was being
overly paranoid and she worried that her husband carried too much
doubt to be fully effective as a spiritual leader.
He sipped his coffee and sat down, diligently working to
prepare his sermon. When he was finished, he dropped to his
knees and prayed.
My Lord and my God. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I
cannot change. Grant me the courage to change the things that I can. And
above all my Lord, grant me the courage to know the difference. Amen.
Reverend Polk eased himself up from the floor, this time
turning off all the lights within his home, and lying there in bed, he
thought about how proud he was of Justin and the courage it took
to take those first steps towards a new beginning in life. He
laughed a little when he considered the fight between Justin and
Mr. Pappy and he became sad when he thought about Ms. Tessa.
He closed his eyes and fell away into sleep, never giving the three
of them a second thought.
—24—

Tessa held the door open, allowing Justin a chance to ease

his way through the invisible barrier that divided his false sense of
security and that of her private, intimate world. She gave him a
push and together they entered her home. “In or out, let’s go,”
Tessa said shoving him inward.
She placed her umbrella in an old tin bucket that was set
neatly beside the front door and eased her way around him. He
watched her as she moved to rearrange a pile of throw blankets,
books, pillows, and the elaborate collection of plush dolls that were
each scattered across her home.
Justin was impressed with her home and he paid especially
close attention to the cleanliness in the air—the smell and
fragrances of woman—and it both aroused and terrified him. He
was in the presence of beauty and every substance of his bodily
senses was shaken, knowing he was only feet away from the
clutches and power of love, lust and sex personified in the presence
of Tessa Jameson. He wasn’t sure whether she was there to aid him
in his journey or hinder his ability to become free of the plagues of
humanity, thereby casting aside one demon within false hope and
replacing it with sexual entrapment.
She tossed her keys upon a small kitchen table and emptied
her pockets of any loose change. She kicked her wet boots towards
the front door and reminded Justin that he had to get out of his
wet clothes.
 “Come with me,” she said. “The tub is this way.” Tessa led
him through the living area, into her bedroom and ultimately the
bathroom. Feeling his hesitance she said, “Come on, I don’t bite.”
She led and he followed, eyeing the immaculate collection
of romance novels that lined the base of her bedroom walls. She
sifted through boxes in her closet and pulled out a pair of men’s
sweatpants and a t-shirt while he stood still in the center of the
room, unsure of how he should act within the presence of such
beauty and within the privacy of her home. Because it had been so
long since he was alone with another woman, much less another
human being, he was beginning to feel very uncomfortable and out
of place, like a boy on his first date, caught alone with his first
woman. He did the best he could to ease his own tensions.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” Justin said, lying to her.
She noticed the odd look of concern on his face and
questioned him again, “What?” Aware of his reluctance to
comment on the choice of clothing, she shook her head and
laughed. “They don’t belong to another man if that’s your concern.
And no, they were not left here by another man either. I prefer to
wear men’s clothing if you must know.” She smiled and gave him
a wink and said, “When I wear clothes at all.”
She tossed him the clothes and pointed towards the
shower. “Go. I will make some coffee if you want.”
Justin said thanks and slipped himself into her bathroom
and immediately recognized that her door did not lock. Inside, the
room smelled clean and perfumed. He took his time to undress,
wrapping his wet clothes within his buttoned-up shirt and setting
them neatly in a corner near the commode. He stepped into her
tub, opting not to use the shower by force of habit. He hid himself
behind the shower curtain and tried to relax.
 Justin turned on the faucet and watched as the water began
to rise gradually within the tub. All the while he peeked from
behind the shower curtain, afraid Tessa might barge in because the
door would not lock.
And barge in she did. Over the course of his bath, Tessa
repeatedly stormed through the door, setting out his towels one at
a time, some female deodorant and an extra toothbrush. She came
back to remind him where the toothpaste was and then again to
remind him that the coffee was waiting. And each time she barged
through the door he reached for his washcloth and hid the most
intimate side of himself beneath it. A few times she tried to take a
peek behind the curtain, asking if he needed anything and each
time she startled him and laughed at his innocent anger.
“Suit yourself sweetie,” she said.
She left the bathroom door open and began working to
tidy up her home again, humming sensual tunes aloud. She
removed stacks of dirty laundry, tossing them away in her hamper
and she worked to arrange her love novels that were spread across
her bedroom and across her futon in the living area. She stacked
the books neatly across one wall in her bedroom and hid the more
risqué magazines beneath her bed. She watered some of the plants
she had in her home, some palm trees she kept close to the balcony
door and lots of ivy. She found her remote control and put some
music on the radio.
Justin relaxed in the tub and listened to the sounds of the
music as it filled her home. She selected a classical radio station and
the sounds of the piano helped ease the tension of the moment and
it helped drown out the winds and the rain and the thunder that
continued to fall outside. For the moment Justin was free of his
turmoil and pain and he appeared, even if only temporarily, to have
never undergone the loss of his family. He was for the moment,
happy.
 Tessa continued to hum her tunes in unison with the piano
and stringed instruments as they blared from her stereo in the
living room and Justin continued to listen beneath the suds in the
bath, repeatedly dunking his head in and out of the water.
This went on for more than half an hour until he realized
the volume of the music had decreased and he couldn’t make out
her whereabouts any longer. He stopped moving and remained still
within the bath, trying to discern her location by the sounds of her
feet as they moved across her home. First there was nothing—only
silence—and then he heard her. He could hear the floor cracking
beneath her feet as she walked. She was quiet and she returned to
the bedroom. He eased one leg out of the water and used his foot
to open the shower curtain, and there, he found her.
She had her back towards him and within the faint lighting
of her room created by the storm that breached her bedroom
window, he could see her. She was standing still and humming
again with music only she could hear and then she began to
undress herself.
Oh my god, he thought.
Her back was to him and he could see the curvaceous
contours of her body, silhouetted by the darkness of her bedroom
and the flashing streaks of lightning outside. The first item to be
removed was her jeans. She rocked her hips up and down, easing
her beautifully round bottom out from within the tight denim, until
her jeans were resting on her ankles. She eased one foot out and
used the other to toss them towards her hamper, using the lighting
from outside to reveal the magnificence of her leg, thigh and
bottom. She turned again and removed her shirt, and finally her
bra. Her back was strong and firm. She stretched her arms in an
imaginary yawn, leaning slightly to the side, allowing Justin to see
one breast as it hugged her body. She released her hair from the
elastic band that held it in place and shook it out with her hands
allowing her light curls to captivate his curiosity even more. From
where she stood, he could feel her desire for him growing across
the room and he began to breathe heavily.
Justin was still and in awe of the moment. How long had it
been since he seen the body of a naked woman? How long had it
been since he touched and tasted and felt the essence of true
beauty? How long had it been since he was completely vulnerable
to the power of the greatest gift to ever have been bestowed upon
mankind?
He reached down and cupped and squeezed himself and
felt a tingling sensation rush from his feet up to his head and he let
out a heavy sigh.
What is she trying to do to me? He thought. God she’s beautiful.
And so naked.
She reached for one of the lower drawers in her bedroom
chest and pulled out a pair of fitted sweat shorts and a tank-top.
Beneath the suds he became erect and hard. He held his breath in
hopes of remaining completely silent and still within the water,
hoping not to startle her. Either way, he was aware of her antics
and he knew she was completely aware of what she was doing.
When he finished bathing, he slipped from the tub,
peeking around the backside of the shower curtain to ensure Tessa
wasn’t hiding in some inconspicuous place, waiting to catch a peek
at his wet naked body. He stood silently, trying again to locate her
whereabouts by the sounds of her feet upon the floor. When he
was confident she was no where around, he found the towel she set
neatly on the counter top and began to dry the excess water from
his body.
He worked the towel across his body and paused only to
study himself in the mirror. This was the first time he had seen his
new look, entirely naked and clean within more suitable lighting.
 He still carried the accents and features of a strong young
man. He had put on some weight, a small belly had formed over
the years which he poked and admired. His chest was firm as were
his arms and he turned slightly to admire his butt. Pleased with
what he saw he smiled and in his smile he could make out the more
visible features and scar on his left cheekbone. It was more obvious
now that the beard was gone and seeing it so clearly now again, it
momentarily frightened him.
He came out, comfortable and relaxed wearing the grey
sweatpants and t-shirt she loaned him. She was finishing a cigarette
on the balcony and had already dressed into a relatively sheer and
more comfortable nightgown. She waved him over and offered
him a fresh cup of coffee. He sat next to her on the futon, and she
waved him closer.
“I said I don’t bite,” she said. “Only sometimes.”
Justin eased over towards her, cupping his drink to ensure
nothing was spilled. Together they sipped coffee and listened to the
rain and spent time staring into one another’s eyes without saying
more than two words for long periods of time. She was admiring
his new look and clean cut face and smoothed skin. She didn’t over
exaggerate it; she was honest with him. “You’re incredibly
handsome Justin.”
He thanked her and sipped his coffee, keeping his head
down as people do when they appear to be working to cool their
drinks.
She tried different approaches to communication and body
language, all in an attempt to help him relax. Tessa believed that
her breakthrough moment to help bring Justin to life would come
in the form of sexual desire and lust. She believed all men relax and
share their most intimate secrets just before or after sex.
The bedroom to her was the most suitable place to learn the inner
details and desires and dreams of all men.
She reached for him and set his head upon her chest,
feeling his heartbeat upon her bosom. She ran her fingers through
his newly cut hair and noticed in a moment, he was asleep. Outside,
the rains began to slowly fade into a sprinkle and Justin drifted
away into a deep sleep, almost snoring in her bosom. “Hmm, now
that’s a first,” she said.

When Justin came around and finally woke from his nap he
found she was still there, lying next to him, running her fingers
through his hair and humming softly in his ear.
“Justin,” she said in a whisper. “It stopped raining. Can
you believe it? It finally stopped raining.”
He stretched and yawned, kicking out his limbs and he
made a sound that to her sounded like a purr.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. I rather enjoyed you sleeping next to me,”
Tessa said. “I can’t say many men would have done the same, or at
least tried not to.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“Only a few hours.”
He scratched his head and tousled his hair and said, “I
don’t know why but I feel like I’ve been asleep for days.”
“You were snoring pretty hard too.”
“I hope you’re not upset with me,” he said.
“For snoring? Are you kidding me?”
He looked her over, in her sheer evening gown and he
found her incredibly sexy, more so than he ever noticed in the past,
and her body was desirable, but nothing stirred his arousal.
 “For not doing anything?” he asked.
“Is that a question Justin or a statement?”
“I guess it’s a little of both,” he said.
Tessa moved in closer and set her face against his,
breathing into his neck. She could see him becoming aroused
through the sweatpants, knowing that only a thin layer of cotton
kept their animalistic desires at bay. She held him tight, allowing
him to wrap his arms around her body. “Oh Justin.” He didn’t
respond to her; instead he started to cry.
“Oh my God,” she said pulling away. “Are you crying?”
Oh my God, he is crying.
She lifted his face with her hands and tears were streaming
down the side of his face. And he was fighting back natural desires
to sob, sucking in air and letting it out slowly between grinding
teeth. “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Have I done something wrong?”
“No,” he said. “Actually, you’ve done everything right. It’s
not you. It’s me. No, it’s her.” He pulled himself away and stood
beside the futon and began to speak.
“Her?” Tessa asked. “Who are you talking about Justin?”
That’s when it dawned on her. She understood what was
happening to him. Oh my, she thought. “It’s your wife, isn’t it?”
“Holding you last night and this morning,” Justin started,
“was amazing. I haven’t held another woman since my wife was
alive. And here, with you, I realized something. I can’t remember
her face this morning. I can’t remember what she felt like or what
she tasted like or how she smelled. I have forgotten her.”
“Oh Justin, I feel terrible. I’m sorry,” Tessa said feeling
ashamed for her recent antics. She used a stack of pillows to cover
her body. “I wasn’t trying to do anything to hurt you sweetie, I
promise.”
 Justin began telling Tessa how much he thought about his
wife between moments of arousal and desires to be near her; all the
while Tessa was explaining and apologizing to him for her actions
and selfish mannerisms.
“Are you even listening to me?” he asked.
She nodded and covered her mouth with a pillow.
“I don’t remember when it was that I first began to fall in
love with you Tessa.
Tessa was in shock. “What?”
“I can’t pinpoint a particular day or time when it may have
occurred only that the more I tried to hate you over the years, the
more I wanted to be near you.”
“Hold on a minute; slow down Justin,” she said
interrupting him. “Are you sure you know what you are saying?”
“Of course I do. I have thought about you so much over
the past year or so and the more I’d see you, dancing around the
bar, shaking your hips from side to side, the more I became upset
and jealous that you were not mine. And I felt so guilty about my
feelings because of my wife and my son. And then, there’s more.”
“Tell me Justin.”
“I went to see Reverend Polk,” he said.
“Me too,” she said interrupting him again. “I’m sorry,
please, go on.”
“Anyhow, I went to see him and he told me what you did
for me. For my family. He told me about the money you raised to
see them properly buried.” He started to cry again, heavier than
before.
“What is it?” she asked. “Was I wrong? Should I have not
done that?”
He waved her off with his hand and said, “No, it’s not that.
What you did for me, for my family, is amazing. It’s one of the
most sincere acts anyone has done for me in my life. But here,
looking at you and thinking about that simple gesture, I
remembered something.”
“What Justin? Tell me!”
“I haven’t gone to see them. I’ve never visited their grave
site. I don’t even know where they are buried.”
Tessa was stunned. In all the years and all the agony
witnessed in that battered soul who staggered into her bar on
Saturday nights, never once did she consider that he never visited
their final resting place. She remembered then that she didn’t see
him at the funeral.
“My God Justin,” she said. “I never knew.”
“No one knew. I haven’t told a soul but God until now.
And when you put your face against mine, as much as I wish I
could hold you right now and give you that security you need and
deserve, I can’t stop thinking about her. I need to end it. I need to
see her, see them both, and try to find some sense of closure.”
“But you’re not intending on doing anything stupid, right?”
He asked her to explain herself, not ever considering for a
moment she might mean suicide.
She nodded her head yes and he understood. “No,” was all
he said.
Tessa stood, tears falling down her face and she hugged
him, kissing him on the neck repeatedly, letting him know she
understood what he had to do.
“I’ve had a recurring dream,” Justin started to explain.
With his head he followed the perimeter of her home; his eyes
stared at everything but seemed to notice nothing in particular. “I
was never much of a dreamer, at least not that I can recall. I
suppose all those years alone, I had to dream, since I didn’t speak
to many people.” Justin looked at her and laughed. “I guess that’s
what makes crazy people, crazy huh?” Justin waited for her
response, as though he needed her reassurance to let him know he
wasn’t crazy. She said nothing, only waited attentively for him to
continue.
“Well this dream, I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve
woken to this image, but I can see it as clearly as I can see
everything in this house. In my dream, I am lying next to my wife
and she is pregnant with my son. I am awoken by this force, this
presence I can feel and see, but can’t see. Does this make sense?”
Tessa acknowledged with a nod and though Justin wasn’t sure she
truly understood, he continued anyhow, using his arms to act out
the vision within his mind. “Well this force is like a ghost, like a
shadow and it looks like a man, but doesn’t sound like one and it’s
laughing at me. Holding me down. Trying to choke me. And the
longer I struggle, the more I begin to make out the image.”
There was another long pause in the story and with his
head down towards the ground, Justin said, “It’s me.”
“What is Justin?” Tessa asked.
“The shadow that I know is not a man is me. The longer I
fight it, the more it laughs and the more I can make out the face.
It’s me I am fighting with.”
Tessa interrupted, trying to offer her psychoanalysis of the
dream and he cut her short.
“It doesn’t sound like me but it has my face. Then, when
the shadow realizes I won’t stop fighting, it points to my wife and
suddenly, she is naked and uncovered and I can see my son
through her body. She is transparent and I see him, Johnny, a baby,
there inside her.”
Justin became more emotional as the story went along and
Tessa rubbed his arm and his shoulder to help offer her
encouragement. “It’s okay Justin; you don’t have to tell me.”
Justin explained that he needed to tell this story and
continued. “This shadow, its arm grows longer and I can see it
reaching for her and the hand grows too, bigger, really big, large
enough to cover her entire belly and it says to me, ‘If I can’t have
you, then I will take your son.’ And then it starts to squeeze her
belly, and I can see my son being crushed and I wake up
screaming.”
Justin looked to her and Tessa didn’t say a word. She felt
the dream was a vision created within his own guilt of his
imagination. He told her he didn’t need her to respond. He then
went on to explain how living the way he did was awful; it was a
lifestyle he wouldn’t wish on anyone. He told her that every night
since their death he replayed the images of that night, their
conversations heading towards the Texas panhandle and the
moments just before the crash. “Some things are still cloudy,” he
said to her. “I think as I begin to forget them, I make them up to
compensate this awful desire to stay bitter.”
“Whatever happens Justin, when you see them, please be
honest to yourself. I will be here if you need someone. The same as
I always have, waiting for your heart to come around and your eyes
to see me.”
“I see you Tessa. I have always seen you. But now, I have
to see them. I’ve got to go.”
She stopped him before he hit the door and she pulled out
a tattered pamphlet that she saved from the funeral some six years
ago. She detailed some quick instructions, after confirming that he
did not want her company on this trip. He told her he would rather
be alone, as it should be.
—25—

Justin pulled his truck off the highway and onto the muddy
white gravel pavement and eased his truck beneath the large stoned
entranceway that read Broussard's Meadow, handcrafted and
engraved within weathered stone. Like the ancient ruins of a city
destroyed and long slipped away into history, all that remained of
the once elaborate cemetery were remnants of a deteriorated stone
wall that surrounded its perimeter, replaced now by spots of cast
iron fencing and scorched and overrun weeds and mesquite trees.
He drove the truck around the windy gravel road, leaving
behind him a trail of clumpy white mud. Looking over the scenery,
at the decaying burial lots, he noticed that most of the headstones
were cracked, chipped and broken; others were buried behind
collected mounds of leaves and mud. He stopped to consider one
that was nothing more than plastic PVC pipe, formed into the
shape of a cross and he thought about how poor the family had to
have been and how humiliating it must have been for those who
opted to use such cheap materials to honor their deceased loved
ones. For a moment he confirmed with his map, hoping the plot
did not belong to his family.
He passed rows of the forgotten, the proud souls who
wouldn't ask for the shirt off your back if they were naked or for
the scraps from your table if they were hungry. Here, properly
aligned and rudely forgotten were rows of men, women and
children of Seymour and the surrounding towns. He read the
names aloud between puffs of cigarette smoke. They were Anglo,
African and Mexican-American and here, in the middle of
nowhere, unloved and unaltered, they were all the same. They were
dead.
This was the final resting place for so many loved ones
who had gone on to settle their terms with Death and Life. His
heart was aching and he was nervous and scared and he fumbled
between cigarettes as he found and passed the spot where his wife
and son were laid to rest. From where he parked, Justin could see
the plot through his side mirror on the truck and he finished
another cigarette before reversing and getting out from the security
of his truck.
Oh my god, he thought. There they are.
He became suddenly stiff and choked up and for a
moment it was hard for him to breathe. He was ashamed of
himself for never visiting this place. He was so ashamed that he
began to feel as though they were somehow watching him, a
mother and son, unhappy with his seeming loss of commitment to
their lives and dedication to their memory.
Their plots were set oddly enough, beneath a large willow
tree and the sun was piercing through the wavy strands of branches
and leaves as they blew in the wind. Tiny arrays of sunlight beamed
upon their headstones; they were set side by side, a mother and a
child, a wife and a son. The scene was odd to him. Willow trees are
native to Texas but seeing one here, amidst most things dying and
decaying made Justin feel out of place and it captured his attention
more so than his wife and son.
Justin carried with him a nice bouquet of flowers he
purchased along the way and walked through the drenched soil
until he reached the placement of their headstones.
Standing there, life as he knew it ceased to continue and it
appeared as though the world stopped spinning; birds did not
chirp, bees did not swarm, the wind did not blow and the sun had
neither set nor risen in his life. His mind began to wander and in an
instance he was back to a more pleasant time, driving along the
two-lane blacktop highway with his loving wife sitting next to him
and his son smiling in the backseat. He was young, he was alive,
and he was in love. He was at the pinnacle of the journey called
life, with the woman he chose to be his partner for all eternity, until
death do them part.
He dropped to his knees and removed the wet sod and
leaves and grass that had collected around their names. He was
angry with how unkempt their plots appeared and he began to cry
again and on his knees, sinking into the soil, he begged for
forgiveness between heavy sobs. On his knees Justin began to
make his peace with his family.
“It’s me baby. It’s Justin. I don’t know where to begin. I’m
so sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when they laid you to rest.
I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you went to sleep. I’m sorry I
couldn’t stop this from happening. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to hold
you when you took your last breath.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I tried for so long
to join you, both of you. I have spent every night since the accident
contemplating death. I have tried to come up with ways to take my
own life, but I was afraid that my choices would have led me
somewhere other than where you two are right now.” Wherever you
are, he thought. “And the idea of spending all eternity away from
you was worse than spending the rest of my life with only your
memories to keep me safe.”
Justin looked around, wiping tears from his face and he
continued. “How’s my baby boy doing? Do me a favor my love.
Hold him for me. Tell him Daddy is okay. Tell him I’m sorry I
can’t be around and that one day I’ll be there with him again. Tell
him I’m sorry I never got to teach how to play catch, like I always
promised I would.
“I came to ask you to forgive me. I’m gonna stay close
now. I’m gonna be here if you need me. I swear it.”
 From his knees he looked around the cemetery and noticed
a weathered bench someone had crafted out of wood. It was
scorched and weathered from years of sitting open to the sun and
full of holes because of the bugs and elements of the climate. He
thought about how his son would look sitting there, smiling at him,
waving to him and telling him how much he loved his daddy.
Justin remained on his knees for several hours, listening to
the winds, crying and talking aloud to the spirit of his deceased
wife and son. When he felt the time was right, he stood, wiping the
tears from his face and the mucus from his nose.
“I met someone. I came to ask for your blessing should I
choose to move forward with her. I don’t know what my future
holds, if there’s a place for a man like me in this world to start
over. But I’m gonna to be better now. I’m gonna try harder. I
won’t ever forget you my love. I won’t ever forget either one of
you. You were my first love and together with my son, you were
my only reasons for living. But I have to find other reasons now,
until it’s my time baby. I love you. I love you both, don’t ever
forget that. And I promise you my wife, I will come visit more
often.”
Justin stood there with dried tears glazed upon his cheeks
beneath the willow tree and sun, as the heat from a new day
pushed its way inward, driving back the steady rains and clouds
that had settled upon the town of Seymour for the past few days.
He closed his eyes and held his hands to the air and allowed the
warming heat of the sun to penetrate his face and body for a
moment, as if somehow God Himself were holding him. Quietly,
under his own breath he said thank-you.
Justin would spend a few more quiet moments with his
wife and son, sharing his life as it had been since they departed
before loading himself into his pickup truck and heading back
home to his cabin.
—26—

Justin parked his truck on the side of his cabin and stepped
through the thickened mud before making his way onto the porch
and interior of his cabin. By late afternoon the sun was beating
down upon the earth in full force as it does in West Texas and he
began to sweat heavily from the humidity. The top layer of soil on
the cabin grounds had already begun to harden and the soil was
turning a light brown, matching the dead grass and mesquite trees.
It would be a matter of hours before the average observer
recognizes any evidences of the past rains. On the inside, nothing
had changed since Justin left his home last but yet somehow, to
him, it had all appeared to transform over night.
His cabin had always been dirty and today was no
exception; there were piles of bread crumbs on the floor and
uneaten slices of salami on the table top. Broken glass still
remained scattered throughout the floor near the kitchen sink and
more still on the counter-top. The cabin smelled of mildew and the
air was heavy and unclean. Justin began working to open the
windows and he used a brick to prop open the screened door,
allowing somewhat of a breeze to air the place out. He found a
broom in the closet and began sweeping the dead bugs, dirt and
debris outside, finishing with the back porch. On the porch he
paused to notice himself in the mirror on the back windowsill. He
gave himself a nod, approving of his semi-domesticated look and
continued on with his cleaning.
He found the toy that belonged to his son and it didn’t
scare him to see it. He held it in his hand and he smiled and found
a place to set it before going back to work, all the while stopping at
intervals to admire it.
He worked his way around the interior walls of the cabin
until he found himself face to face with his Holy Bible and the
dusty cigar box. He reached for the cigar box and remembered the
revolver still on the floor, half hidden beneath his leather recliner.
He picked it up and studied it for a moment before placing it back
inside the cigar box. He ran his fingers across the cover to the Holy
Bible and then flipped the pages like a small fan. He took in a
breath and after considering the events of the past week—his
conversations with Reverend Polk and Ralph Parison, his
embarrassing confrontation with Mr. Pappy and finally his
awkward romantic exploits with Tessa Jameson—he let out a sigh
and patted the Bible and looked at the cigar box, never giving it a
second thought.
Justin slipped outside and took a moment to admire the
beauty as it had surrounded his cabin. The sun was beginning to set
behind him and the shadow of his back porch and the trees along
his cabin began to extend closer and closer towards Lake Kemp.
Birds flew overhead. A dog was barking off in the distance and the
sounds of laughter came from the many families who were busy
enjoying their time together as they stayed and visited the
surrounding cabins.
“It’s amazing isn’t it?”
Justin was startled to see Ralph Parison coming up from
behind him. He hadn’t noticed him standing along the back porch
when he stepped outside nor did he recognize the sounds of the
rusted 1957 Bellaire as Ralph parked it along the cabin behind his
truck.
“Actually,” Justin said. “It is rather amazing.”
Justin scanned the area surrounding the lake, from left and
then to the right, and for the first time in many years he truly
considered the magnificence of the lake and all the surrounding
cabins. His cabin was not the only one to sit across the lake and hill
and he watched as families were at play together. They were
enjoying this one moment in their lives when they did not have to
worry about bills or debt, traffic or the stresses that come with
working hard to provide a means to survive. Fathers were fishing
with their sons and mothers and daughters were laughing and
smiling together on the back porches of their weekend get-aways,
brushing one another’s hair and painting each other’s nails. Dogs
were running free, chasing rabbits and squirrels and the birds that
flew above the lake were singing sweet tunes of a more hopeful
time.
“How could I have completely overlooked the beauty of
this place?” Justin asked.
“Believe it or not,” Ralph said. “It’s rather easy to do. I
think it’s harder for us to notice the beauty in life before we
recognize the evil.” Ralph looked back towards the cabin porch.
“Take for instance that wild set of cactus,” he said,
directing Justin’s attention. “See, from the outside they are a dull
green and ugly, and they hurt if you move too quickly to touch one
because of the prickly spines all over them. But look at the flowers
they bud in their season.”
Justin looked and recognized the lovely violet shaded
flowers that were budding along the top.
“Some people call them Mexican rosebushes,” Ralph said.
“And as ugly as cactus can appear, they don’t take much to keep
them alive and they still bud flowers on the top, even if we always
overlook them and never take the time to admire their beauty.”
Justin considered the analogy and he knew what Ralph was
trying to tell him. He hadn’t noticed the cactus too much because
plants like that run wild in these parts of Texas but Ralph’s timing
was impeccable.
 “You know, I never had a son I could pass this property
on to when I moved on,” Ralph said. He lit a cigarette and offered
one to Justin. “As old as I am, I doubt I will ever have a son to
pass anything on to.”
Justin looked to him, blowing cigarette smoke in the wind.
“I never known another man who cared enough to watch over me
like my own father did when I was younger. Those first two years
when I lived under that bridge were hard for me.”
“The last four have been tough for me,” Ralph said. He
too blew cigarette smoke into the air and said, “Something tells me
you’re going to be alright. I think you will handle my properties just
fine and I honestly don’t think I would trust them to anyone else
Justin.”
Justin was in awe of Ralph’s proposal. He tried to find the
right words to thank him for caring as much as he had all these
years, providing food, a place to stay, and some sense of security.
“Thank-you,” Justin said, extending his hand towards
Ralph.
“No son,” Ralph said, “Thank-you.”
The two men shared a long handshake, looking into one
another’s eyes as a father and son might when little or no words
need to be said.
“I’ll check in on you from time to time,” Ralph said,
heading back towards his Bellaire.
“You’re leaving?”
Ralph nodded his head. “Just for a bit. I had a chance to
marry someone once. A lovely woman with a few spines on the
outside, but overall she was a beautiful person. I’m gonna try to
find her.” Ralph gave Justin a wink and said, “I think you know
what I mean.”
Justin considered the lovely blonde woman who was at
home sitting on her futon with a pillow in her lap or smoking a
cigarette on her balcony, waiting patiently for her silent prince to
return, and said, “Yeah. I think I do.”
Just before Ralph left however Justin reached into his back
pocket and found the fancy embroidered cloth made by Reverend
Polk’s wife. He looked it over, inspecting it one last time as though
trying to commit the look and feel to memory and said, “Here, take
it.”
“Why does that look familiar?” Ralph asked.
“Let’s just say it belonged to a mutual friend.”
Ralph smiled and held it to his face.
He watched as Ralph slipped himself into the rusted car,
fixing his rear view mirror on the windshield. He was holding a
cigarette in his mouth and after rolling up his sleeves and turning
up the volume on his rock-n-roll station, he was gone.
Rumor has it he left to find Ms. Darla Presley before she
found out about the romantic encounter with Tessa Jameson.
Some say he simply had enough of the solitude of his life spent in
the upper office to the grocery store. Either way you look at it, he
did leave his job behind at the I.F.A. Foodstore and he left his
cabin properties to Justin in belief that both of them, despite their
losses and what was gained, could still make a life of what life they
had left to enjoy.
—27—

When Sunday finally rolled around, Reverend Polk woke

up extra early, and despite his detailed sermon he worked hard to
prepare for the people, he opted not to use it. He didn’t pick up his
notes as they were set upon the kitchen table. He looked himself
over in the mirror and with a nod of approval he then dropped to
his knees as he had done time and time again, thanking his Lord
for life spent in service to His ministry.
He took his time, with no pressure or worries about
keeping the people waiting. When he made his way outside he took
in a long breath, letting the sun beat down on his face and he
smiled. The ground was still relatively moist but the sun had
already begun to dry any indications of rain. Mr. Pappy was waiting
patiently outside the back door to the church and held the door
open for his boss. He was wearing his customary Sunday suit with
old boots.
“Lovely day isn’t it boss?” he asked.
“Oh yes indeed,” Reverend Polk said. “I do believe it is a
day for a miracle.”
Pappy looked at his watch and said, “We a little late boss?”
He winked and patted his loyal friend on the shoulder as if
to assure him all was well and proceeded.
When Reverend Polk came out to greet the congregation,
there were heavy faces of concern waiting for him in the pews.
He was immediately swarmed by a small group of people who
began asking him if everything was okay because he had never
been late to start a Sunday service. He didn’t say a word to anyone;
instead he waved them away with a smile. He stood with his hands
upon his hips until he made eye contact with Ms. Beverly Ellsworth
who was busy whispering between herself and a friend and fanning
her face with the Sunday pamphlet.
She thought something was wrong for him to be staring so
hard and when he did not return her smile she became
uncomfortable, tapping the shoulder of her friend beside her.
“Pastor? Everything okay?”
Reverend Polk smiled and nodded good morning to her
friend. “I was hoping you might join me for some tea this
afternoon? Maybe accompany me on a picnic?”
Startled Ms. Beverly covered her mouth with the folded
paper in her hand and said, “Why yes Pastor. I’d love to.”
“Good” was all he said. Reverend Polk gave a smile and
turned towards the pulpit. He took his place behind the large
wooden platform, setting his Bible neatly upon the top. He
spanned the area, looking each member in the face and followed
with his eyes to the back of the church and was pleased with what
he found. Ralph Winslow Parison was gone.
While keeping his congregation in expectance, he
continued to search the congregation until he found what he was
looking for. There, in the pews, was a young man he hadn’t met
before. His face was heavy with grief and he appeared distraught
and worried. His shoulders were slumped and Polk guessed it was
his wife that was holding his hands in hers across her lap.
Reverend Hilliard Ray Polk cleared his throat and
explained that he would start Sunday service in a seemingly
different manner this morning. He didn’t care to go through the
usual routine and wasn’t interested in religious rules. He took his
place upon the pulpit and scanned the room one final time before
beginning his sermon.
He smiled at the young man as they made direct eye
contact. “Today people, I’m gonna tell you a story about a pebble
and a pond.”
—28—

That afternoon Trey Phillips was busy with his drinks and
he started probing Peggy with questions about Tessa’s
whereabouts. He asked why she hadn’t been around and if she still
worked at The Hawk’s Nest and Peggy did her best to keep him at
bay and out of her friend’s personal business. His ego and his pride
had been wounded and he was still rather upset about the
confrontation between him and Justin just nights before. If ever
there was a seed of avarice sewn in the hearts of men, it was
stirring life now within the mind of Trey Phillips with each sip of
alcohol.
“Maybe you should slow down,” Peggy said.
“Maybe you should mind your own damn business.”
Peggy walked away ignoring him and his antics and tended to other
guests in the bar. She could see however his rage beginning to boil
over into his outer emotions and it was becoming increasingly hard
for people to ignore.
Several of Trey’s friends told him that they should leave
and call it a day but he only shoved them away, telling them also to
mind their own business.
He continued to drink his beers and called for another
round and this time Carl Lee intervened.
“Why don’t we call it a day huh Trey? You started early, no
harm in that.”
 “What the hell is wrong with you people?” Trey asked,
addressing everyone around him.
“I just think you’ve had a few too many already,” Carl Lee
said quietly, trying to be discreet in his confrontation. “And I know
you’re probably still upset about the other night and maybe a little
embarrassed and we just feel that perhaps you should go home and
sleep it off.”
“This don’t have shit to do with that stupid whore!”
Carl Lee eased back a bit from the counter, sure to keep
himself from striking distance of Trey Phillips. “I wasn’t talking
about Tessa.”
“You know what? I don’t care if she wants me or not, you
honestly think I could care less what a whore thinks about me?”
Trey shoved his drink forward on the bar until its contents spilled
over. He threw his arms in the air and said, “Look at me. I could
have any woman I want, even you,” he said staring and then
pointing towards Peggy, “You honestly believe I want to fight for
some trashy woman like Tessa Jameson? I mean, come on now,
how many men in this town have had her already?”
“Okay Trey, it’s time for you to go,” Peggy said. She began
wiping down the counter and then turned to face Carl Lee with
teary eyes and whispered a silent plea in hopes he might make a
stand and rid them of Trey’s presence.
“Trey,” Carl Lee said. “Either you go or I call Sheriff
Ryman.”
Trey laughed and looked around the bar and addressed its
crowd who were waiting to see how he might react. He removed
himself from his seat at the bar and started towards the front door,
pausing only to grab a drink from someone’s table. He toasted the
crowd and slammed its contents down his throat, trickles of
whiskey ran down the sides of his mouth and then he said aloud,
“The hell with all of you.”
 Trey wasn’t finished probing into the personal life of Tessa
when he stumbled out The Hawk’s Nest that afternoon nor was he
over the embarrassment that came with getting knocked out by
Justin. It was one thing for a man like him to get into a fight and
lose because the odds are always in favor that a man will lose a
fight from time to time, especially when they are initiated as much
and as often as someone like Trey Phillips preferred. He pulled a
shiny flask from under his driver’s seat and took a long swig of
alcohol before deciding to take matters further into his own hands.
He was one of the few people in town who were privy to certain
bits of information about people’s personal lives, primarily because
his father was such good friends with council members and judges
and not to mention the Sheriff’s Department. And if there was any
bit of information that also struck curiosity with the people of
Seymour, it was the actual living whereabouts of Justin Olerude
Bower.
Trey took the twenty-minute drive north of town until he
came upon the vast array of cabin properties settled off and around
Lake Kemp. He may have known the general vicinity of Justin’s
home but he didn’t know the exact cabin number. What he did
recognize however was the rusted Chevrolet pickup truck parked
on the side of one of the more rundown and disheveled properties.
He noticed Justin was in transition to leave his home so he parked
in a less evident manner so as not to be seen. He lit a cigarette and
waited. Justin never noticed him.
When Trey felt the time was right he made his move. He
parked the truck a good distance from the cabin and walked the
rest of the way. Every now and then he was startled to hear the
sounds of children playing or parents’ calling to their kids or
someone’s dog barking but he kept his composure and moved
onward. The back door was unlocked and opened, as Justin never
locked his door, certain no one would dare trespass. Trey kicked
bottles on the floor and probed and poked at various objects,
inspecting the area like a burglar. Inside he found little Johnny’s toy
propped up on the kitchen table. He held it and for a moment it
scared him, knowing that the toy had to have once belonged to the
son he heard Justin lost many years ago. Trey was just a kid, a
freshman in high school the year the accident occurred but he
remembered the story well nonetheless. He tossed the toy to his
side and watched as it hit the floor and continued snooping around
Justin’s living quarters.
He plopped himself down on Justin’s recliner and kicked
his feet up off the ground and locked his fingers behind his head,
laughing and boasting at his accomplishments. “What a disgusting
pig,” he said to no one. He studied the entire cabin until he found
two objects that captured his attention. They were out of place and
sitting on a windowsill, so he jumped up and went over to
investigate. “What do we have here?”
One of the objects was Justin’s Bible and the other was the
cigar box given to Justin by Ralph Parison years ago. Trey opened
it and what he found made his eyes widen with excitement. “Well
what do you know? I guess that son-of-a-bitch isn’t so brave after
all.” He lit a cigarette and studied it for a moment. Just then he
heard the sound of a car door slam shut and it startled him. He put
the revolver in his pocket, peeked out the kitchen window and just
as quickly as he arrived, he left.

Tessa was sitting at home on her balcony, finishing a small

joint when she heard the sound of a car door slam shut. She was
sure it was Justin come back to see her and she hopped up from
the wicker chair and leaned over the railing to investigate. What she
found instead momentarily frightened her. What the hell is he doing
here?
Before she could retreat and act as though she wasn’t
home, he had spotted her. Trey Phillips was waving towards her
balcony with one hand and shouting and calling her to come down
and speak with him. He had a wicked grin and Tessa knew
something was amiss.
 “What the hell are you doing here Trey?”
“Why honey, is that any way to treat a guest?”
“You’re not a guest and you have no business coming to
my home.”
“Oh but he can?” Trey asked.
Referencing Justin upset her. She returned inside and
quickly slid into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, pulling her hair back
into a bun. She ran downstairs barefoot and found him standing in
her yard with his hands interlocked behind his back.
“Trey! What the hell are you doing at my home?”
With that same wicked grin he told her that he only wanted
to check on her and that he missed her and was really concerned.
She stood with her arms crossed and began demanding that he
leave. She kept looking back, over her shoulder, worried that Justin
might appear and get the wrong idea about why Trey was at her
home. He kept moving in closer, reaching for her, trying to grab
her bottom and the closer he came the more she could smell the
alcohol on his breath.
“Stop it Trey!”
“What’s the matter baby? I know you like the attention.”
Tessa shoved him away from her, warning him that he should stop;
all the while she worried that Justin might appear.
“Who you looking for?” he asked. Trey wrapped his arms
around her and put his face close to hers then pulled her into his
waist and whispered, “You looking for your little boyfriend?”
Tessa could feel something heavy within his pant pocket
and she fought her way out of his clutches noticing Trey was
carrying an object of some sort, but of what she couldn’t quite tell.
Just then Tessa heard the sound she was dreading; Justin
was parking the truck and hopping out of the cab and when she
turned to address him, her heart sank. Knowing he would have
reservations as to why Trey Phillips was at her home she
immediately began to plead her side of the story and as she turned
to walk towards him Trey grabbed her by one arm and swung her
around, pulling her close to him and started to kiss her on one
cheek.
“Why don’t you tell him the truth baby,” Trey said, pulling
Tessa’s hair hard enough to make her quit resisting.
Justin wasn’t sure how to react. He was carrying with him a
small bouquet of flowers he purchased along the way to her home.
Seeing Tessa in Trey Phillips’ arms upset him, enraged him, and he
moved forward cautiously with a limp.
“Tessa,” Justin said. He tried to remain calm and smiled at
her and said, “What’s going on?”
Tessa was struggling to fight back tears, the ripping
sensation of Trey’s hands upon her scalp made it hard for her to
speak.
“What the hell does it look like?” Trey asked, jerking
Tessa’s head from side to side.
Justin reacted, dropping the bouquet of flowers to the
ground and he moved in their direction. He noticed Trey reaching
down towards his pocket and the young man began taunting him,
pleading with him to move forward.
“Yeah, come on big boy. I’ve got something for you.”
Justin stared as Trey’s pocket and then followed the
movements of his hand. “If you got a problem with me, then let
her go and we can handle it.”
Trey laughed. “It’s not that easy mister hero.”
“Then what the hell do you want?” Justin asked.
For Trey Phillips it wasn’t a matter of want but of necessity
of control. He was a young man accustomed to getting what he
wanted—from circumstances in his life and from others—but
lately that stigma of machismo was wearing thin in the eyes of the
people. His pride and his ego had been insulted and he didn’t know
how to react.
“You owe me an apology,” Trey said to Justin.
“That’s it? A stupid apology and you let her go?”
Trey looked at Tessa who was maintaining her balance by
clutching onto Trey’s hands as his grip tightened around her scalp
and hair. “Yeah, that’s what I want.”
Justin hobbled over and as he began to make his way down
to one knee, Tessa pleaded for him to stop. “No Justin. Don’t give
in to this piece of shit!”
At that moment Trey jerked her harder, causing Tessa to
scream and as she did Justin leapt towards them both. Trey threw
Tessa to one side and met Justin in the middle and the two men
became interlocked in a battle of willingness and wit.
Tessa picked herself up from the ground and wiped the
tears and mud from her face and began yelling, pleading for them
to stop. Before she could return inside to call the local authorities
she heard the shot.
Trey was standing and his mouth was open and he was
staring at the gun in his hand. “I didn’t know it was loaded.” He
turned to Tessa as if to convince her otherwise. “I was only
planning on scaring him.”
Tessa screamed no and she fell to the ground beside Justin,
nearly knocking Trey to his feet as she shoved past him. She lifted
Justin’s head up off the ground and let it rest upon one arm and
began repeating, “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Justin was fading in and out of consciousness. His eyes
wandered about until they found the image of Trey Phillips
standing before him, the pistol resting on an open palm. That’s my
gun, Justin thought. But how?
 Tessa began wiping Justin’s forehead with her free hand
and working to unbutton his shirt and as she did, the blood began
to flow more freely. Trey was behind her and he kept telling Tessa
he didn’t know the gun was loaded and as the fear of shock wore
thin, he fled in panic, leaving the pistol behind on the ground.
Tessa kept saying no as she rocked Justin in her arms back
and forth like a baby and she held him close to her bosom and she
noticed the heavy concentration of blood on his chest and back
and she began to cry.

Tessa looked towards the sky and reached upward with her bloody
palm and she screamed.
Epilogue:

The waiting room inside Seymour Hospital was packed

with curious visitors. Everything appeared as though the city of
Seymour fell back in time. Roughly six-years ago, many of these
same people were sitting in the same hospital waiting on news of
the victims to a deadly and tragic accident involving Ralph
Winslow Parison and a passing family. Today, the concern was
focused once again on Justin Bower and his status as a victim of
gunshot.
When Reverend Polk walked in, the massive hoard of
visitors and guests all let out a simultaneous sigh of relief. He was
scared and afraid for his friend. Trailing behind him was Ms.
Beverly and Mr. Pappy who drove them both from their afternoon
picnic. Reverend Polk turned to ask Ms. Beverly to wait with the
others. Before walking away he asked his loyal friend to wait with
her. One of the first to meet him was Sheriff Ryman.
“We got him Reverend,” the sheriff said.
“Who?” Who do they have?
“Trey Phillips. Marshall Phillips boy. He was so scared we
didn’t have to do anything. He confessed to everything. Drunker
than a skunk I’ll tell you that much.”
“And what do we know about Justin?” Polk asked, looking
over and beyond the Sheriff’s shoulder down the long corridor of
rooms.
 With his fedora in his hand the Sheriff bowed his head and
then returned his attention to Mr. Polk and said, “Nothing yet sir.
They’re waiting on you inside.”
Reverend Polk knocked on the door to Justin’s room and
heard the faint sound of Tessa Jameson calling to him from the
other side. He held his breath for a moment, reminding himself
that no matter what the outcome of the event, it was his
responsibility to be the strength of the community and save his
emotions for the privacy of his own house.
Tessa stood to greet him, hesitated, and then leapt towards
his direction. Reverend Polk held her close and patted her head and
began telling her all was well, though not absolutely sure himself.
He felt himself become weak when he saw Justin lying there in bed
with tubes coming in and out of his body. The image was almost a
direct flashback to the images of the night of his crash many years
ago when he waited for the unknown visitor to wake, only to be
told his wife and son was dead.
“Where’s the doctor?” Reverend Polk asked.
Tessa wiped a tear and told him that she had momentarily
stepped out.
“And how is he? Is he gonna be okay?”
Just then the doctor came in and she pardoned herself for
not being there when he arrived. She sat the two of them down and
explained that Justin would be fine. The bullet exited out his back,
through the shoulder and it was a clean wound, as she put it. She
told them both that he would have to stay in the hospital for a few
days but in the end, he would be no worse or no better than he was
prior to arriving.
Reverend Polk waited and spoke to Tessa for a bit, and
then he stood and set one hand upon Justin’s head and prayed.
Justin woke to find Reverend Polk leaning over him. “You
mean I’m not dead yet?”
 Tessa leapt and nearly knocked the Reverend over trying to
squeeze around him to get to Justin. She gave him a kiss on the
forehead and then the face and then the lips until finally Justin let
her know he was okay.
“How you feelin’ son?” the Reverend asked.
“Tired,” was all he said.
“Well you gonna get plenty of rest in here son.” Reverend
Polk let out a sigh and stood back to watch them both for a
moment, Tessa and then Justin both. “Yes, it is a good day.”
The three of them talked and laughed until finally Mr. Polk
excused himself from the room. “I’m leaving you now son.” With a
wave and a gesture over his shoulder Reverend Polk said, “There
are lots of people waiting to know how you’re doing. Because they
care Justin. Because there is still a little good left in this world.”
Before leaving however, Reverend Polk told Justin he
would be praying for him and that God had a purpose in his life.
He turned to Tessa and told her she was in charge of him from this
moment on and that she was to take care of him and stand beside
him. Reverend Polk said a silent prayer and then turned to walk
away. Before leaving however he asked one question of Justin. “Do
me a favor.”
“What’s that Reverend?” Justin asked.
“When I leave this room, don’t throw anything at my back,
you hear?”
Justin smiled, then he laughed and then he began to cry.

It is Finished | Job 42:17

 QUESTIONS FOR FURTHER DISCUSSION

•What predictions can be drawn from the image on the cover,

when juxtaposed against our hero, Justin Olerude Bower?
•By the end of the story the reader realizes and understands the
beauty within and surrounding Lake Kemp. What is the
significance in seeing the cabin as a dark and isolated world, with
limited details to the multitude of other available cabin properties
and life, at the opening to the story?
•What psychological emotion and power is first described in the
opening to the story as a “living, breathing presence that concealed
itself within the shadows?”
•What dark symbolic figure serves as the herald to the story, calling
attention to the reader in an attempt to foreshadow possible death
and doom for our protagonist?
•How do the pattern and lives of each of the three supporting
characters—Polk, Parison and Jameson—parallel the life of Justin
Bower? Describe each character’s metaphorical pattern as it
parallels Justin’s.
•What is the symbolic significance in Mr. Pappy’s actions, when
trying to prevent Justin’s entry into the church, using only a
broom?
•Despite Justin’s earnest desire to die, a newfound feeling of hope
pushes our hero out of his ordinary and secluded world, into the
more populated world within the Hawk’s Nest. Which character
personifies the ideal of hope during the early stages of this story?
•The obvious theme in “Proud Souls” is hope rekindled. Can you
think of significant moments in the story where Justin battles the
ideals of hope and life, loss and death?
Introducing the author…

Bobby Ozuna was born and raised in Fort Worth, Texas. Proud
Souls is his first novel. Since creating his own publishing company
—Ozuna Publications—he has since went on to blog his
experiences of being an independent publisher and author and he
even shares marketing and book promotional information online
with anyone willing to collaborate. He is a firm believer in creative
arts and has become an advocate for following your dreams. He
speaks at local schools and organizations—or just about anywhere
people will let him talk. In his blog, “Drawing Stories...With
Words” Bobby answers the questions of writing and reading fans
alike in his “PS: We Wanna Know” segment.

Bobby utilizes many social networking forums, such as MySpace,

Facebook and Twitter. Below is a breakdown of where you can find
and connect with Bobby online. Be sure to stop by and say hello.
Bobby's Homepage
Bobby's Blog
Bobby on Twitter
Bobby on Gather
Bobby on The Book Marketing Network
Bobby on The Odd Mind
Bobby on Facebook
And Coming Soon... “The Other Side of Glory”

"The Other Side of Glory" is my tribute to the time, sacrifices,

friendships, dreams and realities of my younger days and my
time in the US Marines. Unfortunately, for those of you Hoo-
Rah! hard charging Devil Dogs out there or warmongers who
appreciate a good military tale, this probably won't be the story
for you. I am sticking to my traditional means of writing fiction,
using my own flare for enticing an audience, focusing on the
struggles of the human condition as I attempt to transform
characters as they take the stage in their archetypal roles to
create a “coming-of-age” story in the essence of Good versus
Evil.

If I had to share any preliminary secrets into this next book it

would be this: I took a man and split him in two pieces, one half
representing the lighter side of humanity and the other half
representing the darker nature of mankind. From there I used a
woman as the catalyst that forces these two characters together
in a continuous struggle. In the backdrop of their military setting
the reader will be thrown into a world of prostitution, drug use
and abuse, alcoholism, violence, love, friendship and
camaraderie. I will force the audience early on to choose which
character they like more, the young innocent Joe Allario or the
overbearing Mikey Alaniz. And by the time the journey unfolds
and the story is presented to the audience, they will be forced to
choose again, as a secret is revealed.

I have always gotten pleasure out of playing with the audiences

virtues and morality and I believe “The Other Side of Glory”
will both challenge them and fuel their desire to continue
reading with each turn of the page and offer something more
than the typical fictional tale.

You can keep up with all progress of the novel at my blog,

“Drawing Stories...With Words.”